Devney Perry's Blog, page 3
March 22, 2021
EXCERPT: Stone Princess
Enjoy this excerpt from Stone Princess by Devney Perry.
Presley
That’s today?
That’s today.
That’s today.
There were only so many ways to interpret two words. Only so many ways to alter their meaning with various inflections.
that’s today
No matter how many times I’d spoken Jeremiah’s text aloud, none of the options held appeal. The bastard hadn’t even bothered with a question mark or period to alleviate some confusion.
The ugly words jumped off my phone’s screen, and I snarled as I shut it down. There was no point reading them over and over and over again. I’d been doing it constantly since Saturday.
Those two words were the last in our thread. He’d sent them the morning of our wedding—the wedding he’d forgotten. Jeremiah hadn’t texted a panicked apology. He hadn’t called me endless times to fill my voicemail with excuses. He hadn’t driven the three hours from Ashton to Clifton Forge to get on his knees and beg for my forgiveness.
His text might as well have read the end.
Well, fuck him. Fuck his text. Fuck all the years I’d wasted on a man who claimed to love me but didn’t have a damn clue how to show it. I wouldn’t even get the satisfaction of breaking up with him face-to-face. Or maybe standing me up on our wedding day had been his chicken-shit way of breaking up with me.
After calling off the wedding Saturday, I’d spent yesterday in tears, nursing a broken heart and a raging hangover. Presley Marks was not a woman who cried easily. I’d given up on tears at a young age because they only earned me another slap. But yesterday, I’d let them fall freely.
I’d cried for being so damn stupid. And pathetic. And alone. And humiliated.
How many times had my friends warned me about Jeremiah? How many times had I defended him? How many times had I looked at my naked ring finger, deluding myself that I didn’t need an engagement ring when a wedding band was the real prize?
The sting in my nose threatened more pitiful tears, but I sniffed it away, blinking rapidly before a stray tear could ruin my mascara. Then I shoved my phone into my purse and pushed open the door of my Jeep. The white paint gleamed, reflecting the early morning sunshine.
I’d had it cleaned and detailed last week. I’d wanted it to sparkle when Jeremiah and I drove away from the wedding reception. I’d wanted the interior spotless when we drove it to Ashton.
Today was supposed to be moving day.
The majority of my belongings were in boxes, and I’d reserved a U-Haul trailer. I’d signed a lease on an apartment in Ashton because Jeremiah had been temporarily bunking at his motorcycle club’s clubhouse—for three years.
Stupid, Presley. So damn stupid. I’d been so busy planning how to merge our lives into one that I hadn’t noticed my fiancé was perfectly content living apart.
Maybe I should have stayed home and dealt with the fallout today. I had a landlord to contact and numerous deposits to lose. Instead, I’d followed my normal Monday morning routine and driven to work, detouring to swing by the grocery store and shove my thousand-dollar wedding dress into the clothes donation bin.
The Clifton Forge Garage had been my constant for the past ten years, and today, I needed the familiar. I unlocked the office door and slipped inside, flipping on the lights before settling in behind my desk and taking a moment to revel in the silence.
I’d come in an hour earlier than normal and the quiet wouldn’t last. Soon, there’d be tools clanking in the shop, customers chatting in the waiting area and phones ringing in the office. But for now, it was peaceful.
I drew in a deep breath, searching for Draven’s scent. He’d died over three years ago, but there were times when I could still smell him. Maybe it was only my imagination conjuring a hint of Old Spice and a breath of mint swirling in the air.
When I’d woken up this morning, I’d known the wedding fallout was mine alone to handle, so that was exactly what I’d do. One step at a time, day by day, I’d survive.
At least the hardest part was over. I’d already marched down the aisle to tell the wedding guests that my fiancé had forgotten about our big day. The rest would be easy, right? It was simply logistics. Bartenders and caterers would be paid. By me. Gifts that hadn’t been collected would be returned. By me. My life would go on and one day, it wouldn’t hurt as much to know that my fiancé hadn’t wanted to marry me.
But could I really blame Jeremiah? This was my own fault. I’d been deaf to the truth and blind to the signs. I should have ended this engagement years ago. Maybe I was just as much a coward as Jeremiah.
Burying those thoughts, I rattled the mouse beside my keyboard, waking up my computer. Then I dove into my email inbox and tried to get ahead for the day.
Once the garage crew knew I was here and not wallowing at home, they’d swarm the office. They’d hover over me all day, checking to make sure I wasn’t on the verge of a breakdown. I wouldn’t get shit done because I’d be busy maintaining a brave face and listening to them curse Jeremiah up one side and down the other. I’d tell them I was fine—which they’d know was a lie.
I hadn’t been fine in a long, long time.
There were only three unread emails to go when footsteps echoed outside. The metal staircase that extended to the apartment above the office vibrated as Isaiah, one of our mechanics and my friend, came downstairs.
I took a deep breath and spun my chair to face the door as it opened. “Morning.”
“Hey, Pres.” Isaiah stepped inside, wearing a pair of faded jeans and a black T-shirt. His short brown hair was damp. He crossed the room and sat in a chair across from my desk, leaning his elbows on his knees.
“It’s good to see you in that chair,” I said.
He grinned. “It’s good to be sitting here again.”
Isaiah and his wife, Genevieve, had been living in Missoula for the past three years while she’d gone to law school. Now that they were back, Isaiah would be working at the garage again, and Genevieve would be working alongside her mentor at a small law firm in town.
“How’s Genevieve?”
“Good.” He cast his glance to the ceiling. “She’ll be down soon. She’s excited for her first day back at work.”
“How was it staying in the apartment again?”
“Like old times. Don’t tell Genevieve, but I’m hoping the contractor is behind a couple weeks so we can crash upstairs a little while longer.”
Years ago, that apartment had been their home, and it hadn’t been rented out in the years that they’d been gone. Like their jobs, it had been waiting for them to return. Except this time, they wouldn’t be calling it home. The two of them had bought a new house in a quiet neighborhood and would be moving in soon.
Still, no matter how much time passed, I’d always consider the apartment Isaiah’s.
“I’m excited to see your new place.”
“You can have the first tour.” His grin widened.
I studied his face. It was strange to see Isaiah smile, but a welcome strange. He’d changed a lot from the tortured soul who’d started working here years ago.
Genevieve deserved all the credit. She’d rescued my friend and brought life back to his eyes. She’d worked a miracle in that little studio apartment.
“What?” He ran a hand over his mouth. “Do I have something on my face?”
“No. It’s just good to see you happy.”
He sighed, the grin fading. “How are you?”
“Fine.” That was the first one of the day. I’d likely repeat it twenty times before I left at five. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay.”
Isaiah would be the only one who didn’t push today. I could hug him for it.
The two of us had formed a fast friendship from the beginning, the only two outsiders working at a garage staffed by former members of the Tin Gypsy Motorcycle Club. Before Isaiah, I’d ignored the hushed conversations alone. I’d dutifully gone to the post office or bank whenever my presence hadn’t been wanted in the office. I’d overlooked the parties and booze and women.
But then the club had disbanded and life at the garage had changed. They’d hired Isaiah, and when the others whispered about secrets, Isaiah and I had each other.
We’d drink coffee together every morning. We’d talk about nothing. I wouldn’t ask him about his past or why he’d spent three years in prison. He wouldn’t ask me how I’d come to Clifton Forge and why I refused to speak of my childhood. Yet we were friends. I trusted him.
And it was good to have him home.
“How are things at the garage?” he asked.
“Busy. We had to hire two mechanics to cover what you did on your own.”
His forehead furrowed. “I’m not taking anyone’s job by coming back, am I?”
“No. Dash and I talked and we’re keeping them both on to do the routine stuff so you can apprentice on the custom work.”
“I’m happy to do the oil changes and tune-ups.”
I waved him off. “It’s already decided.”
Isaiah stood and walked into the waiting room. The clank and pop of a K-Cup slotting into the coffee machine drifted my way.
The space as a whole had two enclosed offices along with the reception area where I sat. One of the offices belonged to Dash, the owner of the garage and my boss. The other had been Draven’s—Dash’s father.
Draven had managed the garage his entire life, passing it down to Dash. He’d been more than my boss, he’d been my family. I’d gladly give up every one of my material possessions to have him back for a hug this morning or to have had him with me on Saturday, walking me down the aisle.
After Draven had died, Dash had offered me Draven’s office. It had a door so I wouldn’t have to sit out front with waiting customers, but I hadn’t been able to sit behind Draven’s desk.
No one, especially me, would ever take his place.
So we’d converted that office into a waiting room. We’d brought in couches and set up a coffee station.
Isaiah came out with two steaming mugs in his hands.
“Thanks.” I smiled as he set down my cup. I spun the swirl stick, mixing the packet of sugar he’d poured in and the dollop of French vanilla creamer floating on top. “And thanks for Saturday.”
He lifted a shoulder, sipping his black coffee. “No problem.”
On Saturday, after I’d announced the wedding canceled, I’d tried to run away. Isaiah had caught me before I’d been able to get into the Jeep and disappear into a black hole. He’d dragged me to the apartment upstairs before anyone could see. Emmett and Leo, two more mechanics and my friends, hadn’t been far behind. Leo had snagged a bottle of tequila from the bar. The three of them had fed me shot after shot until I’d passed out on the couch.
“I suppose I have a mess to clean up out back,” I muttered.
“I think Dash and Bryce took care of most of it.”
“Oh.” I shook my head. “Damn. They should have just left it for me.”
How many hours had I spent planning this wedding? How many favors had I called in from my friends? What a waste.
My friends shouldn’t have had to clean up my mess too.
There was a field behind the garage and I’d always thought it had the potential to rival any city park, so I’d asked Dash if I could clean it up and host the wedding there. Draven hadn’t been there to walk me down the aisle, but what better place to include his memory than the garage that had been his business for so many years?
Dash had agreed, insisting that I let everyone help with cleanup. We’d spent three backbreaking weekends working in that field, clearing away the shop’s overflow. Spare rusted parts were moved to the other end of the property. Old cars were pushed out of sight. The overgrown grass was cut, revealing a lush green carpet beneath.
On Thursday and Friday, we’d set up the white tent, rolled in tables and placed chairs. Too busy doing the decorations, I hadn’t planned a rehearsal dinner. Skipping that dinner had been my biggest mistake—besides picking the groom. Maybe if we’d had the dinner, I would have known Jeremiah wasn’t going to show.
“They didn’t mind, Pres,” Isaiah said.
“This is my fault. I should deal with it.”
“This is Jeremiah’s fault.”
“No,” I whispered. “It’s mine.”
A door slammed above us. Isaiah and I cast our gazes to the window as Genevieve’s heels clicked down the staircase and she joined us in the office.
“Morning.” Her dark hair was up in a fancy twist and she was dressed for work, sophisticated and perfect for Isaiah.
He stood to pull out the chair beside his, holding her hand as she eased into the seat. “You look beautiful.”
Had my man ever held out a chair for me? Had he ever stood when I’d come into the room? Was complimenting your fiancée so goddamn difficult?
“How are you feeling?” Genevieve asked, her brown eyes full of concern.
“Yesterday was bad. I haven’t been that drunk in a long time, so I was fairly useless all day.” I’d spent hours hovering over the toilet, retching from the tequila. The hangover hadn’t mixed well with my emotional state. “Sorry I didn’t text you back.”
“It’s okay.” Her gaze softened.
Genevieve had inherited Draven’s eyes. I envied that she could look in the mirror and see a living piece of him. All I had was a photo in my desk drawer to pull out when I was feeling alone.
“Ready for your first day of work?” I asked, changing the subject.
“I think so. It will be nice to work with Jim again. I’ve missed him.” She smiled, smoothing out the hem of her black pencil skirt. She’d paired it with a pale blue blouse and stiletto heels. Genevieve Reynolds walked into a room and stole the show. She was stunning, inside and out.
I was pretty, maybe not show-stopping gorgeous, but I was comfortable in my own skin. That confidence had taken me years to build. As a child, I’d perfected the art of blending in and following instruction. Attention had only meant bruises to cover up and explain.
Not until moving to Clifton Forge had I truly let go and embraced who I was.
The hair that I hadn’t been allowed to cut as a kid was now short and bleached white. No one would ever again use my ponytail as a way to hold me hostage while they shouted in my face. At first, the pixie cut had been more a boy’s style than a woman’s. Lately, I’d taken to shaving the sides while keeping the top
longer and draped over one eyebrow.
My hair made a statement. My clothes did too. I had a petite frame that didn’t look good in pencil skirts or blouses because I didn’t have the curves to fill them out. Besides, that wasn’t me. I preferred thick-soled boots to heels. My go-to outfit was a pair of baggy overalls with a skin-tight tee underneath. I’d wear cargo pants held to my frame with a cinched belt to give the illusion of hips. If there was boyfriend in the description, chances were, I’d bought it. I’d shunned girly the day I’d left Chicago at eighteen.
The most feminine I’d been since leaving home had been on Saturday, dressed for my wedding.
Maybe Jeremiah had woken up on Saturday morning and realized he’d made a mistake. That he was still in love with the girl with long, blond hair who’d worn pastels and floral skirts. That he wanted the girl I’d left behind.
“Did, um . . .” Genevieve scrunched up her nose. “Did he call you?”
“No.”
The rumble of an engine saved me from another question, though I doubted the grace period would last long.
Leo and Emmett rode in on their Harleys, both parking against the chain-link fence on the far side of the parking lot. They dismounted as Dash pulled in on his own bike.
It was rare for all three of them to be in this early and to arrive together, especially Leo, who didn’t like to work before ten. Dash must have called them in for a meeting, probably about me. Fan-fucking-tastic.
The office door opened and the three men strode inside. The clock on the wall read seven thirty, and the other mechanics wouldn’t be in until eight.
“Pres, how you doin’?” Dash sat in one of the chairs beneath the windows.
“Fine.”
“You sure?”
I nodded. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t.” He held up a hand. “No apologies.”
“I haven’t been out back yet, but I’ll go out there soon and get everything left put away.”
“We got it yesterday. There’s a few boxes of stuff for you to take, but everything else is done.”
My shoulders fell, heavy with the guilt that my friends had cleaned up my failed attempt at marriage. “I would have—”
“We know you would have done it,” Emmett said, leaning against a wall. His dark hair was trapped in a knot at the nape of his neck. “But we got you.”
“Thank you. And I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” Leo took up the space beside Emmett. “You feelin’ better?”
“Yeah.” Physically, at least.
Leo had come over to my house yesterday. He’d been the only one who’d visited, not just texted. He’d brought me Gatorade, saltine crackers and pickles. He hadn’t stayed long, just enough to deliver his hangover kit before leaving me to wallow. He’d probably left my house and come here to help tear down the wedding tent.
“We gotta talk about something.” Dash shared a look with Emmett and Leo. “Two things, actually. First up, Jeremiah.”
“I don’t want to talk about him.” My pleading eyes found his. “Please.”
“We can’t ignore this, Pres.” His gaze softened. “Doesn’t sit right with me that he’s done this to you. But . . . he’s a Warrior, and we don’t need them back in Clifton Forge. As much as I’d like to beat the shit out of his punk ass, we don’t need that kind of trouble.”
Jeremiah had moved to Ashton three years ago to join a motorcycle club. He lived there and worked there, while I’d split my life between the two towns because he’d needed this kind of family. His family in Chicago hadn’t spoken to him in years. He’d been an accidental pregnancy and his parents had always treated him as such. So I’d supported him. I’d stood back as he’d become part of a brotherhood.
Even when it was the wrong brotherhood.
The Arrowhead Warriors had been rivals of Dash, Emmett and Leo’s former club. I’d split not only my time, but my loyalty too. I’d spent three years straddling a barbed-wire fence between the family I had here at the garage and the man who’d asked me to be his wife.
Jeremiah deserved to have his ass kicked. Repeatedly. But I would never advocate for it. I was firmly on the right side of the fence now and wouldn’t put this family of mine in danger.
“Come on, Dash.” Leo stood taller. “That’s bullshit. He—”
“Please, Leo.” I met his gaze. “Just let it be over. If you go after him, it’ll just cause drama for me.”
He frowned, running a hand over his shaggy blond hair before muttering, “Fine.”
Genevieve let out an audible sigh. “I’m glad that’s agreed. We’ve had enough trouble.”
“That’s the truth,” Dash murmured, nodding at his sister. The siblings had different mothers, but they’d both gotten their chocolate-colored hair from Draven.
“What’s the second thing?” Genevieve asked Dash.
“Got a call from Luke Rosen this morning.”
The room went silent. Why was the chief of police calling Dash?
“What did he want?” Emmett’s eyebrows furrowed. “I just talked to him yesterday.”
“It’s a courtesy thing about Dad.” Dash looked to Genevieve. “He was going to call you, but I said I’d tell you myself.”
“Okay.” She stiffened. “Why do I feel like you’re going to give me bad news?”
“Because I am.” Dash rubbed his jaw. “There’s a production company from LA that’s making a movie about your mom’s murder.”
“What?” She shot out of her chair, Isaiah quick to follow. “Can they do that?”
“It’s public knowledge,” Dash said. “They’ll put the Hollywood spin on it so who knows what’ll come out, but yeah, they can do that.”
“How did Luke get the tip?” Emmett asked.
“The director wants it to be authentic, so they applied for a permit to shoot here. The mayor approved it on Friday. He called Luke early this morning.”
“They’re filming a movie in Clifton Forge.” My mind couldn’t quite wrap itself around that statement. “When?”
“Within the next month or so. Luke doesn’t know exactly when. The city wants the money, so they gave the production company a twelve-month window.”
“What does this mean for us?” Genevieve asked.
“I don’t know,” Dash answered. “But my guess is we’ll see them around.”
“Who? Like actors and shit?” Leo asked.
Dash nodded. “Luke said the mayor hinted that a director and maybe some of the cast might be out to meet the people they’re playing. We might get some visitors at the garage.”
My stomach plummeted. The last thing I needed was for the rich and famous of Hollywood to be at my workplace. I didn’t need to be the sad, pathetic side character they tossed into a movie script for authenticity.
“Do we know who to watch out for?” Genevieve asked Dash.
“Luke said the director’s name is Cameron Haggen.”
“The Oscar winner?” Emmett whistled. “Damn. Who else?”
Dash rubbed his jaw, hesitating. “The only other name Luke knew of was Shaw Valance.”
Shaw Valance.
“Holy fuck,” Emmett muttered as my jaw hit the floor.
Then this would not be a small movie. Even a woman who didn’t have much time for television or movies knew that Shaw Valance was Hollywood’s elite, leading male star. He was America’s hero. I’d seen an article in the salon’s latest issue of People that had estimated his salary for his latest blockbuster at fifteen million dollars. His handsome face was in each issue thanks to the paparazzi who stalked his every move.
Shaw Valance was the last thing we needed in this town and this garage.
Isaiah took Genevieve’s hand, squeezing it tight. “It’ll be okay.”
“I don’t want this.” Her face had paled.
“I know, doll.” He pulled her into his chest, wrapping her up tight. “We’ll lie low. We’ll stay away from it all.”
My friend had just come home to settle into a life with her husband, but now she’d be forced to relive old memories of her parents’ deaths.
“Let’s hope they stay away, do their own thing and are gone before we notice,” Dash said, trying to ease Genevieve’s worries. “I doubt they’ll bother us individually. If anything, they might give some attention to the garage. Presley and I can field questions.”
Leo scoffed. “Or we tell them to fuck off.”
“Best thing we can all do is say ‘no comment,’” Dash said. “Give ’em the cold shoulder.”
Cold? No problem.
I’d made a decision yesterday while I’d been lying on the cool tile of my bathroom floor. I was done letting men hurt me. Jeremiah was the last, and I had no more shits to give.
From here on out, I was the woman with ice in her veins. The woman with a heart of stone.
If Shaw Valance or his award-winning director came anywhere near the garage, I was following Leo’s suggestion.
They could fuck off.
Stone Princess
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Presley
That’s today?
That’s today.
That’s today.
There were only so many ways to interpret two words. Only so many ways to alter their meaning with various inflections.
that’s today
No matter how many times I’d spoken Jeremiah’s text aloud, none of the options held appeal. The bastard hadn’t even bothered with a question mark or period to alleviate some confusion.
The ugly words jumped off my phone’s screen, and I snarled as I shut it down. There was no point reading them over and over and over again. I’d been doing it constantly since Saturday.
Those two words were the last in our thread. He’d sent them the morning of our wedding—the wedding he’d forgotten. Jeremiah hadn’t texted a panicked apology. He hadn’t called me endless times to fill my voicemail with excuses. He hadn’t driven the three hours from Ashton to Clifton Forge to get on his knees and beg for my forgiveness.
His text might as well have read the end.
Well, fuck him. Fuck his text. Fuck all the years I’d wasted on a man who claimed to love me but didn’t have a damn clue how to show it. I wouldn’t even get the satisfaction of breaking up with him face-to-face. Or maybe standing me up on our wedding day had been his chicken-shit way of breaking up with me.
After calling off the wedding Saturday, I’d spent yesterday in tears, nursing a broken heart and a raging hangover. Presley Marks was not a woman who cried easily. I’d given up on tears at a young age because they only earned me another slap. But yesterday, I’d let them fall freely.
I’d cried for being so damn stupid. And pathetic. And alone. And humiliated.
How many times had my friends warned me about Jeremiah? How many times had I defended him? How many times had I looked at my naked ring finger, deluding myself that I didn’t need an engagement ring when a wedding band was the real prize?
The sting in my nose threatened more pitiful tears, but I sniffed it away, blinking rapidly before a stray tear could ruin my mascara. Then I shoved my phone into my purse and pushed open the door of my Jeep. The white paint gleamed, reflecting the early morning sunshine.
I’d had it cleaned and detailed last week. I’d wanted it to sparkle when Jeremiah and I drove away from the wedding reception. I’d wanted the interior spotless when we drove it to Ashton.
Today was supposed to be moving day.
The majority of my belongings were in boxes, and I’d reserved a U-Haul trailer. I’d signed a lease on an apartment in Ashton because Jeremiah had been temporarily bunking at his motorcycle club’s clubhouse—for three years.
Stupid, Presley. So damn stupid. I’d been so busy planning how to merge our lives into one that I hadn’t noticed my fiancé was perfectly content living apart.
Maybe I should have stayed home and dealt with the fallout today. I had a landlord to contact and numerous deposits to lose. Instead, I’d followed my normal Monday morning routine and driven to work, detouring to swing by the grocery store and shove my thousand-dollar wedding dress into the clothes donation bin.
The Clifton Forge Garage had been my constant for the past ten years, and today, I needed the familiar. I unlocked the office door and slipped inside, flipping on the lights before settling in behind my desk and taking a moment to revel in the silence.
I’d come in an hour earlier than normal and the quiet wouldn’t last. Soon, there’d be tools clanking in the shop, customers chatting in the waiting area and phones ringing in the office. But for now, it was peaceful.
I drew in a deep breath, searching for Draven’s scent. He’d died over three years ago, but there were times when I could still smell him. Maybe it was only my imagination conjuring a hint of Old Spice and a breath of mint swirling in the air.
When I’d woken up this morning, I’d known the wedding fallout was mine alone to handle, so that was exactly what I’d do. One step at a time, day by day, I’d survive.
At least the hardest part was over. I’d already marched down the aisle to tell the wedding guests that my fiancé had forgotten about our big day. The rest would be easy, right? It was simply logistics. Bartenders and caterers would be paid. By me. Gifts that hadn’t been collected would be returned. By me. My life would go on and one day, it wouldn’t hurt as much to know that my fiancé hadn’t wanted to marry me.
But could I really blame Jeremiah? This was my own fault. I’d been deaf to the truth and blind to the signs. I should have ended this engagement years ago. Maybe I was just as much a coward as Jeremiah.
Burying those thoughts, I rattled the mouse beside my keyboard, waking up my computer. Then I dove into my email inbox and tried to get ahead for the day.
Once the garage crew knew I was here and not wallowing at home, they’d swarm the office. They’d hover over me all day, checking to make sure I wasn’t on the verge of a breakdown. I wouldn’t get shit done because I’d be busy maintaining a brave face and listening to them curse Jeremiah up one side and down the other. I’d tell them I was fine—which they’d know was a lie.
I hadn’t been fine in a long, long time.
There were only three unread emails to go when footsteps echoed outside. The metal staircase that extended to the apartment above the office vibrated as Isaiah, one of our mechanics and my friend, came downstairs.
I took a deep breath and spun my chair to face the door as it opened. “Morning.”
“Hey, Pres.” Isaiah stepped inside, wearing a pair of faded jeans and a black T-shirt. His short brown hair was damp. He crossed the room and sat in a chair across from my desk, leaning his elbows on his knees.
“It’s good to see you in that chair,” I said.
He grinned. “It’s good to be sitting here again.”
Isaiah and his wife, Genevieve, had been living in Missoula for the past three years while she’d gone to law school. Now that they were back, Isaiah would be working at the garage again, and Genevieve would be working alongside her mentor at a small law firm in town.
“How’s Genevieve?”
“Good.” He cast his glance to the ceiling. “She’ll be down soon. She’s excited for her first day back at work.”
“How was it staying in the apartment again?”
“Like old times. Don’t tell Genevieve, but I’m hoping the contractor is behind a couple weeks so we can crash upstairs a little while longer.”
Years ago, that apartment had been their home, and it hadn’t been rented out in the years that they’d been gone. Like their jobs, it had been waiting for them to return. Except this time, they wouldn’t be calling it home. The two of them had bought a new house in a quiet neighborhood and would be moving in soon.
Still, no matter how much time passed, I’d always consider the apartment Isaiah’s.
“I’m excited to see your new place.”
“You can have the first tour.” His grin widened.
I studied his face. It was strange to see Isaiah smile, but a welcome strange. He’d changed a lot from the tortured soul who’d started working here years ago.
Genevieve deserved all the credit. She’d rescued my friend and brought life back to his eyes. She’d worked a miracle in that little studio apartment.
“What?” He ran a hand over his mouth. “Do I have something on my face?”
“No. It’s just good to see you happy.”
He sighed, the grin fading. “How are you?”
“Fine.” That was the first one of the day. I’d likely repeat it twenty times before I left at five. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay.”
Isaiah would be the only one who didn’t push today. I could hug him for it.
The two of us had formed a fast friendship from the beginning, the only two outsiders working at a garage staffed by former members of the Tin Gypsy Motorcycle Club. Before Isaiah, I’d ignored the hushed conversations alone. I’d dutifully gone to the post office or bank whenever my presence hadn’t been wanted in the office. I’d overlooked the parties and booze and women.
But then the club had disbanded and life at the garage had changed. They’d hired Isaiah, and when the others whispered about secrets, Isaiah and I had each other.
We’d drink coffee together every morning. We’d talk about nothing. I wouldn’t ask him about his past or why he’d spent three years in prison. He wouldn’t ask me how I’d come to Clifton Forge and why I refused to speak of my childhood. Yet we were friends. I trusted him.
And it was good to have him home.
“How are things at the garage?” he asked.
“Busy. We had to hire two mechanics to cover what you did on your own.”
His forehead furrowed. “I’m not taking anyone’s job by coming back, am I?”
“No. Dash and I talked and we’re keeping them both on to do the routine stuff so you can apprentice on the custom work.”
“I’m happy to do the oil changes and tune-ups.”
I waved him off. “It’s already decided.”
Isaiah stood and walked into the waiting room. The clank and pop of a K-Cup slotting into the coffee machine drifted my way.
The space as a whole had two enclosed offices along with the reception area where I sat. One of the offices belonged to Dash, the owner of the garage and my boss. The other had been Draven’s—Dash’s father.
Draven had managed the garage his entire life, passing it down to Dash. He’d been more than my boss, he’d been my family. I’d gladly give up every one of my material possessions to have him back for a hug this morning or to have had him with me on Saturday, walking me down the aisle.
After Draven had died, Dash had offered me Draven’s office. It had a door so I wouldn’t have to sit out front with waiting customers, but I hadn’t been able to sit behind Draven’s desk.
No one, especially me, would ever take his place.
So we’d converted that office into a waiting room. We’d brought in couches and set up a coffee station.
Isaiah came out with two steaming mugs in his hands.
“Thanks.” I smiled as he set down my cup. I spun the swirl stick, mixing the packet of sugar he’d poured in and the dollop of French vanilla creamer floating on top. “And thanks for Saturday.”
He lifted a shoulder, sipping his black coffee. “No problem.”
On Saturday, after I’d announced the wedding canceled, I’d tried to run away. Isaiah had caught me before I’d been able to get into the Jeep and disappear into a black hole. He’d dragged me to the apartment upstairs before anyone could see. Emmett and Leo, two more mechanics and my friends, hadn’t been far behind. Leo had snagged a bottle of tequila from the bar. The three of them had fed me shot after shot until I’d passed out on the couch.
“I suppose I have a mess to clean up out back,” I muttered.
“I think Dash and Bryce took care of most of it.”
“Oh.” I shook my head. “Damn. They should have just left it for me.”
How many hours had I spent planning this wedding? How many favors had I called in from my friends? What a waste.
My friends shouldn’t have had to clean up my mess too.
There was a field behind the garage and I’d always thought it had the potential to rival any city park, so I’d asked Dash if I could clean it up and host the wedding there. Draven hadn’t been there to walk me down the aisle, but what better place to include his memory than the garage that had been his business for so many years?
Dash had agreed, insisting that I let everyone help with cleanup. We’d spent three backbreaking weekends working in that field, clearing away the shop’s overflow. Spare rusted parts were moved to the other end of the property. Old cars were pushed out of sight. The overgrown grass was cut, revealing a lush green carpet beneath.
On Thursday and Friday, we’d set up the white tent, rolled in tables and placed chairs. Too busy doing the decorations, I hadn’t planned a rehearsal dinner. Skipping that dinner had been my biggest mistake—besides picking the groom. Maybe if we’d had the dinner, I would have known Jeremiah wasn’t going to show.
“They didn’t mind, Pres,” Isaiah said.
“This is my fault. I should deal with it.”
“This is Jeremiah’s fault.”
“No,” I whispered. “It’s mine.”
A door slammed above us. Isaiah and I cast our gazes to the window as Genevieve’s heels clicked down the staircase and she joined us in the office.
“Morning.” Her dark hair was up in a fancy twist and she was dressed for work, sophisticated and perfect for Isaiah.
He stood to pull out the chair beside his, holding her hand as she eased into the seat. “You look beautiful.”
Had my man ever held out a chair for me? Had he ever stood when I’d come into the room? Was complimenting your fiancée so goddamn difficult?
“How are you feeling?” Genevieve asked, her brown eyes full of concern.
“Yesterday was bad. I haven’t been that drunk in a long time, so I was fairly useless all day.” I’d spent hours hovering over the toilet, retching from the tequila. The hangover hadn’t mixed well with my emotional state. “Sorry I didn’t text you back.”
“It’s okay.” Her gaze softened.
Genevieve had inherited Draven’s eyes. I envied that she could look in the mirror and see a living piece of him. All I had was a photo in my desk drawer to pull out when I was feeling alone.
“Ready for your first day of work?” I asked, changing the subject.
“I think so. It will be nice to work with Jim again. I’ve missed him.” She smiled, smoothing out the hem of her black pencil skirt. She’d paired it with a pale blue blouse and stiletto heels. Genevieve Reynolds walked into a room and stole the show. She was stunning, inside and out.
I was pretty, maybe not show-stopping gorgeous, but I was comfortable in my own skin. That confidence had taken me years to build. As a child, I’d perfected the art of blending in and following instruction. Attention had only meant bruises to cover up and explain.
Not until moving to Clifton Forge had I truly let go and embraced who I was.
The hair that I hadn’t been allowed to cut as a kid was now short and bleached white. No one would ever again use my ponytail as a way to hold me hostage while they shouted in my face. At first, the pixie cut had been more a boy’s style than a woman’s. Lately, I’d taken to shaving the sides while keeping the top
longer and draped over one eyebrow.
My hair made a statement. My clothes did too. I had a petite frame that didn’t look good in pencil skirts or blouses because I didn’t have the curves to fill them out. Besides, that wasn’t me. I preferred thick-soled boots to heels. My go-to outfit was a pair of baggy overalls with a skin-tight tee underneath. I’d wear cargo pants held to my frame with a cinched belt to give the illusion of hips. If there was boyfriend in the description, chances were, I’d bought it. I’d shunned girly the day I’d left Chicago at eighteen.
The most feminine I’d been since leaving home had been on Saturday, dressed for my wedding.
Maybe Jeremiah had woken up on Saturday morning and realized he’d made a mistake. That he was still in love with the girl with long, blond hair who’d worn pastels and floral skirts. That he wanted the girl I’d left behind.
“Did, um . . .” Genevieve scrunched up her nose. “Did he call you?”
“No.”
The rumble of an engine saved me from another question, though I doubted the grace period would last long.
Leo and Emmett rode in on their Harleys, both parking against the chain-link fence on the far side of the parking lot. They dismounted as Dash pulled in on his own bike.
It was rare for all three of them to be in this early and to arrive together, especially Leo, who didn’t like to work before ten. Dash must have called them in for a meeting, probably about me. Fan-fucking-tastic.
The office door opened and the three men strode inside. The clock on the wall read seven thirty, and the other mechanics wouldn’t be in until eight.
“Pres, how you doin’?” Dash sat in one of the chairs beneath the windows.
“Fine.”
“You sure?”
I nodded. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t.” He held up a hand. “No apologies.”
“I haven’t been out back yet, but I’ll go out there soon and get everything left put away.”
“We got it yesterday. There’s a few boxes of stuff for you to take, but everything else is done.”
My shoulders fell, heavy with the guilt that my friends had cleaned up my failed attempt at marriage. “I would have—”
“We know you would have done it,” Emmett said, leaning against a wall. His dark hair was trapped in a knot at the nape of his neck. “But we got you.”
“Thank you. And I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” Leo took up the space beside Emmett. “You feelin’ better?”
“Yeah.” Physically, at least.
Leo had come over to my house yesterday. He’d been the only one who’d visited, not just texted. He’d brought me Gatorade, saltine crackers and pickles. He hadn’t stayed long, just enough to deliver his hangover kit before leaving me to wallow. He’d probably left my house and come here to help tear down the wedding tent.
“We gotta talk about something.” Dash shared a look with Emmett and Leo. “Two things, actually. First up, Jeremiah.”
“I don’t want to talk about him.” My pleading eyes found his. “Please.”
“We can’t ignore this, Pres.” His gaze softened. “Doesn’t sit right with me that he’s done this to you. But . . . he’s a Warrior, and we don’t need them back in Clifton Forge. As much as I’d like to beat the shit out of his punk ass, we don’t need that kind of trouble.”
Jeremiah had moved to Ashton three years ago to join a motorcycle club. He lived there and worked there, while I’d split my life between the two towns because he’d needed this kind of family. His family in Chicago hadn’t spoken to him in years. He’d been an accidental pregnancy and his parents had always treated him as such. So I’d supported him. I’d stood back as he’d become part of a brotherhood.
Even when it was the wrong brotherhood.
The Arrowhead Warriors had been rivals of Dash, Emmett and Leo’s former club. I’d split not only my time, but my loyalty too. I’d spent three years straddling a barbed-wire fence between the family I had here at the garage and the man who’d asked me to be his wife.
Jeremiah deserved to have his ass kicked. Repeatedly. But I would never advocate for it. I was firmly on the right side of the fence now and wouldn’t put this family of mine in danger.
“Come on, Dash.” Leo stood taller. “That’s bullshit. He—”
“Please, Leo.” I met his gaze. “Just let it be over. If you go after him, it’ll just cause drama for me.”
He frowned, running a hand over his shaggy blond hair before muttering, “Fine.”
Genevieve let out an audible sigh. “I’m glad that’s agreed. We’ve had enough trouble.”
“That’s the truth,” Dash murmured, nodding at his sister. The siblings had different mothers, but they’d both gotten their chocolate-colored hair from Draven.
“What’s the second thing?” Genevieve asked Dash.
“Got a call from Luke Rosen this morning.”
The room went silent. Why was the chief of police calling Dash?
“What did he want?” Emmett’s eyebrows furrowed. “I just talked to him yesterday.”
“It’s a courtesy thing about Dad.” Dash looked to Genevieve. “He was going to call you, but I said I’d tell you myself.”
“Okay.” She stiffened. “Why do I feel like you’re going to give me bad news?”
“Because I am.” Dash rubbed his jaw. “There’s a production company from LA that’s making a movie about your mom’s murder.”
“What?” She shot out of her chair, Isaiah quick to follow. “Can they do that?”
“It’s public knowledge,” Dash said. “They’ll put the Hollywood spin on it so who knows what’ll come out, but yeah, they can do that.”
“How did Luke get the tip?” Emmett asked.
“The director wants it to be authentic, so they applied for a permit to shoot here. The mayor approved it on Friday. He called Luke early this morning.”
“They’re filming a movie in Clifton Forge.” My mind couldn’t quite wrap itself around that statement. “When?”
“Within the next month or so. Luke doesn’t know exactly when. The city wants the money, so they gave the production company a twelve-month window.”
“What does this mean for us?” Genevieve asked.
“I don’t know,” Dash answered. “But my guess is we’ll see them around.”
“Who? Like actors and shit?” Leo asked.
Dash nodded. “Luke said the mayor hinted that a director and maybe some of the cast might be out to meet the people they’re playing. We might get some visitors at the garage.”
My stomach plummeted. The last thing I needed was for the rich and famous of Hollywood to be at my workplace. I didn’t need to be the sad, pathetic side character they tossed into a movie script for authenticity.
“Do we know who to watch out for?” Genevieve asked Dash.
“Luke said the director’s name is Cameron Haggen.”
“The Oscar winner?” Emmett whistled. “Damn. Who else?”
Dash rubbed his jaw, hesitating. “The only other name Luke knew of was Shaw Valance.”
Shaw Valance.
“Holy fuck,” Emmett muttered as my jaw hit the floor.
Then this would not be a small movie. Even a woman who didn’t have much time for television or movies knew that Shaw Valance was Hollywood’s elite, leading male star. He was America’s hero. I’d seen an article in the salon’s latest issue of People that had estimated his salary for his latest blockbuster at fifteen million dollars. His handsome face was in each issue thanks to the paparazzi who stalked his every move.
Shaw Valance was the last thing we needed in this town and this garage.
Isaiah took Genevieve’s hand, squeezing it tight. “It’ll be okay.”
“I don’t want this.” Her face had paled.
“I know, doll.” He pulled her into his chest, wrapping her up tight. “We’ll lie low. We’ll stay away from it all.”
My friend had just come home to settle into a life with her husband, but now she’d be forced to relive old memories of her parents’ deaths.
“Let’s hope they stay away, do their own thing and are gone before we notice,” Dash said, trying to ease Genevieve’s worries. “I doubt they’ll bother us individually. If anything, they might give some attention to the garage. Presley and I can field questions.”
Leo scoffed. “Or we tell them to fuck off.”
“Best thing we can all do is say ‘no comment,’” Dash said. “Give ’em the cold shoulder.”
Cold? No problem.
I’d made a decision yesterday while I’d been lying on the cool tile of my bathroom floor. I was done letting men hurt me. Jeremiah was the last, and I had no more shits to give.
From here on out, I was the woman with ice in her veins. The woman with a heart of stone.
If Shaw Valance or his award-winning director came anywhere near the garage, I was following Leo’s suggestion.
They could fuck off.
Stone Princess
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March 4, 2021
EXCERPT: Dotted Lines
Enjoy this excerpt from Dotted Lines by Devney Perry.
Clara
“What are the yellow lines for?”
“They’re dotted lines,” I answered.
“But they aren’t dots.” August sent me his famous look through the rearview mirror. The look that said I was wrong, and he was skeptical of everything I’d taught him in the five, nearly six, years of his life. He’d picked up that suspicion toward the end of his kindergarten year, and I’d been getting the look a lot this summer.
“No, they aren’t dots. But when you go fast enough, they sort of look like dots.”
“Why aren’t they called stripes?”
“I think some people might call them striped lines.”
“That’s what I’m calling them.” He dipped his chin in a single, committed nod. Decision made. “What do they mean?”
“It means that if you get behind someone going slower than you, and as long as there isn’t someone else coming in the opposite direction and the road is clear, you can pass the slower driver.”
August let my explanation sink in, and when he didn’t ask another follow-up question, I knew I’d satisfied his curiosity. For one topic.
One. Two. Three.
“Mom?”
I smiled. “Yes.”
“How much does the ocean weigh?”
Now there was a whopper. But my son’s endless questions never disappointed to entertain. I’d lost count of how many topics we’d covered on this trip alone. August was nothing if not inquisitive. I couldn’t wait to see what he’d do with all the facts he was storing in his head for later.
“With or without the whales?” I asked.
“With the whales.”
“With or without the yellow fish?”
“With them.”
“And the blue fish?”
“Yes. All the fish.”
“Even the starfish?”
“Mom,” he groaned. “How much?”
I laughed, glancing at the backseat, then turned back to the road. “The ocean, with the whales and the fish and the starfish, weighs more than the moon and less than Jupiter.”
His little forehead furrowed as he rolled that one around. “That’s a lot.”
“It sure is.” My cheeks pinched from smiling, but that was the case with August. When he was younger, I’d told him he had magical powers. That if he smiled, I smiled. Every time. That was his magic, and he used it often.
I adjusted my grip on the steering wheel as the tires whirred over the pavement. The Cadillac floated down the road more than it rolled. In a way, it was like we were flying, skimming just above the asphalt as we soared toward California.
August stared out his window, his legs kicking. He was already restless to get out of the car even though we’d just started today’s journey, navigating the roads of Phoenix as we headed toward the interstate.
We were halfway through our two-day journey from our home in Welcome, Arizona, to Elyria, California.
In total, the trip was only eight hours, but I’d split it up, not wanting to torture my son with an entire day strapped in a car seat. Last night, we’d stopped in Phoenix and had a nice evening at the hotel. August had spent the hours after dinner doing enough cannon balls into the pool to sink a pirate ship. Then he’d passed out beside me in bed while I’d read a book for a few hours of distraction.
This morning, after a continental breakfast of pastries and juice, we’d loaded up the Cadillac and hit the road.
“Mom?”
“August?”
“Do you like this car?”
“I love this car,” I answered without hesitation. Even though I hadn’t spent enough hours behind the wheel to consider it mine, I loved this car. For reasons that would be lost on my son.
“But there’s no movie player,” he argued. It was the third time he’d reminded me that the Cadillac didn’t have a video console like my Volkswagen Atlas.
“Remember what I told you. This car is a classic.”
He huffed and sank deeper into his car seat, totally unimpressed. “How much longer?”
“We’ve got a while.” I stretched a hand to the backseat, palm up.
He might not be having the time of his life in the car, but he was still my best pal. With a crack, he slapped his hand to mine for a high-five.
“Love you, Gus.”
“Love you too.”
I returned my hand to the wheel and relaxed into the buttery leather seat.
Yes, I loved this car, even if it wasn’t mine to keep. The 1964 Cadillac DeVille had once been a heap of rust and dented metal. The car had rested on flat tires in a junkyard in Temecula, California, home to bugs. Probably a mouse. And two runaway teens.
The on-ramp for the interstate approached and I took it, my heart galloping as I pressed the accelerator.
Today was the day. Today I was returning this Cadillac to one of those runaway teens. Today, after more than a decade away, I was going to see Karson.
My stomach twisted. If not for my firm grip on the wheel, my hands would shake. Twelve, almost thirteen years ago, I’d left California. I’d left the junkyard that six of us had called home for a time.
My twin sister—Aria—and me.
Londyn, Gemma and Katherine.
And Karson.
He’d been our protector. The one to make us laugh. The shoulder to cry on. He’d made a bad situation bearable. An adventure. We’d survived the junkyard because of Karson.
And the Cadillac was his, a gift from Londyn. I was simply the delivery girl.
In another lifetime, Londyn and Karson had made this Cadillac their home, back in the days when it didn’t have glossy, cherry-red paint or a working engine. But Londyn had hauled the Cadillac out of the junkyard and had it completely restored. She’d kept it herself for a time, then set out to give it to Karson.
Her trip from Boston to California had only made it to West Virginia. From there, Gemma had taken the Cadillac to Montana. Katherine had been the third behind the wheel, driving it to Aria in Oregon. Then my sister had brought it to me in Arizona.
Ready or not, it was time to finish what Londyn had started. I’d put off this trip long enough. But it was time to make the handoff, to take the last leg of the journey.
The final trip.
It wasn’t the hours on the highway or the destination that had kept my heart racing since we’d left home yesterday. It was the man waiting, unsuspecting, at the end of the road.
Had Karson found whatever it was he’d been searching for? Had he built a good life? Was he happy? Did he remember our moments together in vivid clarity like I did? Did he replay them during the long nights when sleep was lost?
Will he recognize me?
“Mom?”
I shook off the anxiety. “Yeah?”
“How much longer till we get there? Exactly?”
“About four and a half hours.”
He groaned and flopped his back. “That’s gonna take forever.”
“You could take a nap. That will make the trip go by faster.”
August sat up straight and sent me a look of pure poison through the mirror. “It’s morning.”
I pulled in my lips to hide my smile. “How about some music?”
“Can I play a game on your phone?”
“Sure.” I rifled through my purse in the passenger seat, finding my phone. Then I handed it back to him.
August unlocked the screen with the code, though his face worked at times too.
I’d be forever grateful to Devan, August’s father, for helping me create this magnificent boy. But I was also forever grateful that August looked exactly like me. He had my blond hair, though his had been lightened by the Arizona summer sun, whereas I got mine highlighted at the salon. We shared the same nose and the same brown eyes. August’s second toe was longer than his big toe, something he’d also inherited from me.
He was mine.
Mine alone. The lawyer I’d hired when August was a newborn had assured me that once Devan had signed his rights away, Gus was mine.
It wasn’t the life I’d wanted for my son, to grow up without a father, but it was better this way. Devan hadn’t wanted a child and no amount of coercion would have turned him into a decent parent.
So I showered my son with love and attention. I would, shamelessly, for the rest of his life.
Good luck to any girlfriend he brought home. Fathers were allowed to put boyfriends through an interrogation. Well, this mother was taking that liberty too.
The sound of a math game drifted through the cab as August played on my phone. The dings and chimes of the app mixed with the hum from the wheels on the road.
And I breathed as the miles toward California whipped by.
It was only a state. Only a name. But somewhere along the way after we’d left Temecula, California had become synonymous with the past.
California meant hungry days. California meant dark nights. California meant death.
It was the reason Aria wouldn’t go back. Same with Katherine. Neither of them had any desire to set foot in California again. Maybe, if I’d begged, Aria would have come with me, but I wouldn’t have asked that from her. Besides, she’d just had a baby and was in no shape for a road trip.
Aria and Brody were currently enduring the sleepless, grueling nights as parents of a newborn. Logistically, it made sense for me to take this trip now. Brody was both brother-in-law and boss, so while he was taking time to spend with Aria and the baby, there was a lull in work to do as his assistant. With August on summer break from school, this was the window.
Or maybe I knew that if I kept avoiding the trip, I’d never take it.
I could do this.
I have to do this.
Because for twelve years, I’d been holding on to a hope. A distant hope, but one powerful enough that it had kept me from letting go and moving forward.
It was time.
After only thirty minutes, August gave up on his math game. He asked me another long string of questions, and then by some miracle, he fell asleep. Swimming at the hotel last night must have worn him out.
He was drooped in his chair, his head hanging down at an angle that would have given me a neck kink, when we approached the California border. Elyria sat on the coast, north of San Diego, and we still had hours to drive, but crossing the border was a hurdle of its own.
I’d opted for a southern route through Arizona, wanting to avoid Los Angeles traffic. And Temecula.
Visiting California was enough for one weekend. Returning to the town where we’d spent our childhood was an entirely different matter. Temecula had happy memories from the early years, from the happy lives Aria and I had lived before our parents had been killed in a car accident when we were ten. After that, I could count the number of happy memories on one hand. Temecula was full of ghosts, and though they still called to me at times, I wouldn’t go there even with August as my steadfast companion.
This trip was about closure. It was about Karson. That was plenty.
I gripped the wheel, my heart in my throat, as I passed the sign at the state border. California.
My stomach rolled and sweat beaded at my temple. I sucked in a long breath, dragging it through my nose to then push out my mouth. In and out. In and out, Clara. Just like Karson had taught me years ago when he’d witnessed one of my panic attacks.
I hadn’t had one in years.
My hands were trembling when my phone rang. I stretched for it in the passenger seat, checking that August was still asleep. It always amazed me that he could sleep through about anything.
“Hey,” I answered, not at all surprised that my sister was calling. Whether it was a twin thing or a sister thing, we usually had a good pulse on each other’s moods, even thousands of miles apart.
“Hi.” Aria yawned. “Are you okay?”
“No,” I admitted. “This is harder than I thought it would be.”
“Are you in California?”
“Yes.” I blew out a trembling breath. “I can do this, right?”
“You can do this. You’re the bravest person I know.”
“No, you are.”
Aria had brought us both through the hardest time in our lives. While I’d fallen apart after our parents’ deaths, she’d kept us moving. Ten-year-old me had gone comatose for a few weeks, mostly from the shock. What kid wouldn’t buckle under that much heartbreak? Aria. Maybe it was because I’d needed her and she’d stayed strong. She’d kept me going through the motions until the fog of grief had cleared.
Then I’d vowed never to fall apart again. As a child, I’d made good on that promise to myself. As an adult and parent, failing was not an option.
Aria thought I could make this trip and she was right. I could do this.
Granted, she didn’t know what had happened with Karson. Maybe if she knew the truth, she would have given me different advice.
“How are you doing? How’s Trace?” I asked, needing a different topic to focus on.
“We’re both good.” There was a smile in her voice and a tiny squeak hit my ear. “He’s nursing. I think he likes his name.”
“Because it’s perfect.” Broderick Carmichael the Third. Trace. It had taken them over five days to give the baby a name, but when I’d called to check in last night from the hotel, Aria and Brody had proudly announced Trace.
“How is the drive?” Aria asked.
“It’s fine. Taking forever according to August.”
Aria laughed and yawned again.
“I’ll let you go. Take a nap if you can, okay?”
“That’s the plan. Brody fell asleep about an hour ago. Once he wakes up, we’re switching.”
I was glad she had him. I was glad he had her.
Maybe it had been watching my sister fall in love with my friend that had been the final push to send me on this trip. Someday, maybe, I wanted love. I wanted a man to hold me at night. I wanted a man who’d be a good role model to August. I wanted a man who made me feel cherished.
Until I confronted the past, I’d always wonder. I’d always compare.
I’d always think of Karson.
“Call me when you get there,” Aria said.
“I will.”
“Take a picture of Karson with the car if you can. I think Londyn would like to see that.”
“Good idea. I think she would too,” I said.
“Love you.”
“Love you. Bye.”
When I ended the call, the anxiety from earlier had lessened. That was the way with my sister. On a bad day, we had each other. It had been that way our entire lives.
There was a good chance—better than good—that I’d return home with a bit of a bruised heart. And she’d be there to help it heal.
I can do this.
There was no turning back now. The Cadillac had sat in my garage for too long as it was. Maybe it would have been easier if not for the track record with these handoffs. For every trip this Cadillac had taken, one of my friends had found love.
Londyn had met Brooks in West Virginia, thanks to a flat tire.
Gemma had returned to Montana and found Easton waiting.
Katherine and Cash had fallen in love on the sleepy highways between Montana and Oregon.
Aria had come to Arizona and realized the hate she’d harbored for Brody had actually been affection.
I had no delusions that this trip would result in a major life change. I fully expected to be the one woman who returned home single. Months of preparing myself for that reality hadn’t made it easier to swallow.
Yet there was that glimmer of hope I’d buried deep. It mingled with the fear because, unlike my friends, I hadn’t set out into the unknown unsuspecting.
I knew exactly who I was seeking.
Had his smile changed? Did he grin like he used to? God, I hoped so.
I hoped that whatever had happened to Karson in the past twelve years, his smile hadn’t dulled. Because on my darkest nights, when the ghosts escaped their confines at the California border and drifted into Arizona, it was the memory of Karson’s smile that chased them away.
That, and my son.
August stirred, blinking heavy eyelids as he came awake.
“Hey, bud.”
“Are we there yet?”
I gave him a sad smile. “No, not yet. But we’re getting closer.”
He sagged in his seat, his eyes still sleepy and his cheeks flushed. “Mommy?”
“Yeah?” My heart squeezed each time he slipped and called me Mommy. One of his friends at school last year had told August that he called his mom Mom and not Mommy. From that day forward, I’d been Mom except for the rare moments when he was still my baby boy.
“Do you think we can go swimming as soon as we get there?” he asked.
“Probably not right away,” I said. “First we need to stop by my friend’s house. Remember?”
“Oh, yeah. Is it going to take a long time?”
“No, not too long.”
“Then we can see the ocean, right?”
“Yes, then we’ll see the ocean.”
August yawned but sat straighter. His eyes lost their sleepy haze and his gaze flicked out his window, chasing the sage brush and sand that bordered the interstate. “What do you think is more scary, a shark or a lion?”
This boy would never know how grateful I was for his questions. He’d never know that he kept me grounded. He kept me sane. He kept me going. “That depends. Is it a hammerhead shark or a tiger shark?”
“Hammerhead.”
“A lion.”
He nodded. “Me too.”
The questions continued until the open road clogged with vehicles and the Cadillac was swallowed up in traffic. August was about to come out of his skin by the time we made it to the outskirts of San Diego.
We stopped for lunch and August devoured a well-earned Happy Meal at McDonald’s. Then after a refill at a gas station, we loaded up once more for the drive along the coast. After we passed the city, the Sunday traffic moved in the opposite direction, most people returning home after a weekend trip.
Thirty miles outside of Elyria, the ocean came into view, and I decided to pop off the interstate for a quieter highway that hugged the coast. August’s eyes were wide as he stared at blue water and the waves glittering under the bright July sun.
“Let’s do something fun,” I told August, touching the brake to ease us into a turnout along the road.
“What?” He bounced in his chair, then his jaw dropped when I moved to put the convertible top down. “Cool!”
We both laughed as I pulled onto the road. August’s hands shot into the air, his hair, in need of a cut, tousling in the salt-tinged wind.
He needed sunscreen. He should be wearing sunglasses. But for thirty miles, fun was more important than being the responsible mother every moment of every day. That and I didn’t want to do anything to ruin that smile on his face.
I needed that smile as the nerves crept in, twisting up my insides and making it hard to breathe. So I braced my knee against the wheel and raised my arms. “Woohoo!”
“Woohoo!” August cheered with me.
His laughter was the balm to my soul, and I soaked it in, reminding myself that this was August’s trip too. This was his summer vacation to the ocean, something he could brag about on his first day of first grade this fall.
Vacation. We’d explore the oceanside. We’d shop for souvenirs we didn’t need and eat too much ice cream. We’d have a fun trip, then go home. Brody had volunteered his jet to save August from a two-day return trip in a rental car.
The speed limit dropped as we passed a sign welcoming us to Elyria.
I gulped.
My phone chimed with directions through town toward the address I’d entered days ago. Brightly colored shops lined the main road. A couple crossed the road ahead, each carrying surf boards. Signs for parking areas sprang up every few blocks, directing people toward the beach.
Later I’d explore this charming town, but at the moment I kept my focus forward, listening intently to the navigation. When I turned down a side street, I was so anxious I didn’t bother taking in the neighborhood around us.
Then we were there. Karson’s address. The destination was on our left.
I slowed the Cadillac to a crawl in front of a white stucco house with arched windows and a terra-cotta roof. The tiled walkway to the front door was the same rich, caramel brown as the clay. Two baby palm trees towered over the green yard, and off to the side of the house was a garage.
I pulled around the corner, parking in the driveway. The thunder of my heart was so loud I barely registered August’s question.
“Mom, is this it?”
I managed a nod as I turned off the car and unbuckled my seat belt. Then I stared at the house. How would I make it to the front door? Maybe I should have called first. Karson might not even be home. If not, I guess we’d come back later.
But this was definitely his house. I double-checked the number beside the garage door.
“Can I get out?” August asked, already unbuckling his harness.
“Sure.” I’d need him with me for this.
I climbed out of the car, walking on unsteady legs to his side to help him out. Then with my son’s hand in mine, I stood in the driveway and let the sun warm my face. The sound of the ocean was a gentle whisper on the air. The scent of salt and sea hit my nose.
Aria had lived on the Oregon coast for years, and though the smell was similar, there was something sweeter in the Elyria air.
Karson had always said he wanted to be close to the ocean. He’d wanted to learn how to surf. I was glad he’d gotten that wish.
The sound of a door opening caught my attention and I turned, just in time to watch a tall man with dark hair step outside. A short-trimmed beard shaded his sculpted jaw. He was wearing a pair of khaki cargo shorts slung low on his narrow hips. His green T-shirt stretched over his broad chest and clung to the strength in his biceps. His feet were bare.
Karson.
My heart skipped.
He’d grown up. Gone were the lanky arms and legs. Gone was the shaggy hair in need of a cut. Gone was the youth from his face.
This was Karson Avery, a man who stole my breath. But he’d done that at nineteen too.
Those beautiful hazel eyes studied me, then darted to the car as he came toward us. A crease formed between his eyebrows as he took it in. Then they moved to me and that crease deepened.
My stomach did a cartwheel. Please recognize me.
If he didn’t . . . I clung to August’s hand, drawing strength from his fingers. It would break my heart if Karson had forgotten me. Because in all these years, he’d never been far from my mind.
Karson’s feet stopped abruptly and his entire body froze. Then he blinked and shook his head. “Clara?”
Oh, thank God. I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Hi, Karson.”
“I can’t believe it.” He shook his head again, then his gaze shifted to August. “Hi there.”
August clutched me tighter and murmured, “Hi.”
“Is it really you?”
“It’s me.”
“It’s really you.” A slow smile spread across his face, wider and wider.
It hadn’t changed. There, on the face of a man, was the smile from the boy I’d loved.
The boy I’d loved before his life had gone one direction and mine had gone the other.
And between us streaked those dotted lines.
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Dotted Lines
Clara
“What are the yellow lines for?”
“They’re dotted lines,” I answered.
“But they aren’t dots.” August sent me his famous look through the rearview mirror. The look that said I was wrong, and he was skeptical of everything I’d taught him in the five, nearly six, years of his life. He’d picked up that suspicion toward the end of his kindergarten year, and I’d been getting the look a lot this summer.
“No, they aren’t dots. But when you go fast enough, they sort of look like dots.”
“Why aren’t they called stripes?”
“I think some people might call them striped lines.”
“That’s what I’m calling them.” He dipped his chin in a single, committed nod. Decision made. “What do they mean?”
“It means that if you get behind someone going slower than you, and as long as there isn’t someone else coming in the opposite direction and the road is clear, you can pass the slower driver.”
August let my explanation sink in, and when he didn’t ask another follow-up question, I knew I’d satisfied his curiosity. For one topic.
One. Two. Three.
“Mom?”
I smiled. “Yes.”
“How much does the ocean weigh?”
Now there was a whopper. But my son’s endless questions never disappointed to entertain. I’d lost count of how many topics we’d covered on this trip alone. August was nothing if not inquisitive. I couldn’t wait to see what he’d do with all the facts he was storing in his head for later.
“With or without the whales?” I asked.
“With the whales.”
“With or without the yellow fish?”
“With them.”
“And the blue fish?”
“Yes. All the fish.”
“Even the starfish?”
“Mom,” he groaned. “How much?”
I laughed, glancing at the backseat, then turned back to the road. “The ocean, with the whales and the fish and the starfish, weighs more than the moon and less than Jupiter.”
His little forehead furrowed as he rolled that one around. “That’s a lot.”
“It sure is.” My cheeks pinched from smiling, but that was the case with August. When he was younger, I’d told him he had magical powers. That if he smiled, I smiled. Every time. That was his magic, and he used it often.
I adjusted my grip on the steering wheel as the tires whirred over the pavement. The Cadillac floated down the road more than it rolled. In a way, it was like we were flying, skimming just above the asphalt as we soared toward California.
August stared out his window, his legs kicking. He was already restless to get out of the car even though we’d just started today’s journey, navigating the roads of Phoenix as we headed toward the interstate.
We were halfway through our two-day journey from our home in Welcome, Arizona, to Elyria, California.
In total, the trip was only eight hours, but I’d split it up, not wanting to torture my son with an entire day strapped in a car seat. Last night, we’d stopped in Phoenix and had a nice evening at the hotel. August had spent the hours after dinner doing enough cannon balls into the pool to sink a pirate ship. Then he’d passed out beside me in bed while I’d read a book for a few hours of distraction.
This morning, after a continental breakfast of pastries and juice, we’d loaded up the Cadillac and hit the road.
“Mom?”
“August?”
“Do you like this car?”
“I love this car,” I answered without hesitation. Even though I hadn’t spent enough hours behind the wheel to consider it mine, I loved this car. For reasons that would be lost on my son.
“But there’s no movie player,” he argued. It was the third time he’d reminded me that the Cadillac didn’t have a video console like my Volkswagen Atlas.
“Remember what I told you. This car is a classic.”
He huffed and sank deeper into his car seat, totally unimpressed. “How much longer?”
“We’ve got a while.” I stretched a hand to the backseat, palm up.
He might not be having the time of his life in the car, but he was still my best pal. With a crack, he slapped his hand to mine for a high-five.
“Love you, Gus.”
“Love you too.”
I returned my hand to the wheel and relaxed into the buttery leather seat.
Yes, I loved this car, even if it wasn’t mine to keep. The 1964 Cadillac DeVille had once been a heap of rust and dented metal. The car had rested on flat tires in a junkyard in Temecula, California, home to bugs. Probably a mouse. And two runaway teens.
The on-ramp for the interstate approached and I took it, my heart galloping as I pressed the accelerator.
Today was the day. Today I was returning this Cadillac to one of those runaway teens. Today, after more than a decade away, I was going to see Karson.
My stomach twisted. If not for my firm grip on the wheel, my hands would shake. Twelve, almost thirteen years ago, I’d left California. I’d left the junkyard that six of us had called home for a time.
My twin sister—Aria—and me.
Londyn, Gemma and Katherine.
And Karson.
He’d been our protector. The one to make us laugh. The shoulder to cry on. He’d made a bad situation bearable. An adventure. We’d survived the junkyard because of Karson.
And the Cadillac was his, a gift from Londyn. I was simply the delivery girl.
In another lifetime, Londyn and Karson had made this Cadillac their home, back in the days when it didn’t have glossy, cherry-red paint or a working engine. But Londyn had hauled the Cadillac out of the junkyard and had it completely restored. She’d kept it herself for a time, then set out to give it to Karson.
Her trip from Boston to California had only made it to West Virginia. From there, Gemma had taken the Cadillac to Montana. Katherine had been the third behind the wheel, driving it to Aria in Oregon. Then my sister had brought it to me in Arizona.
Ready or not, it was time to finish what Londyn had started. I’d put off this trip long enough. But it was time to make the handoff, to take the last leg of the journey.
The final trip.
It wasn’t the hours on the highway or the destination that had kept my heart racing since we’d left home yesterday. It was the man waiting, unsuspecting, at the end of the road.
Had Karson found whatever it was he’d been searching for? Had he built a good life? Was he happy? Did he remember our moments together in vivid clarity like I did? Did he replay them during the long nights when sleep was lost?
Will he recognize me?
“Mom?”
I shook off the anxiety. “Yeah?”
“How much longer till we get there? Exactly?”
“About four and a half hours.”
He groaned and flopped his back. “That’s gonna take forever.”
“You could take a nap. That will make the trip go by faster.”
August sat up straight and sent me a look of pure poison through the mirror. “It’s morning.”
I pulled in my lips to hide my smile. “How about some music?”
“Can I play a game on your phone?”
“Sure.” I rifled through my purse in the passenger seat, finding my phone. Then I handed it back to him.
August unlocked the screen with the code, though his face worked at times too.
I’d be forever grateful to Devan, August’s father, for helping me create this magnificent boy. But I was also forever grateful that August looked exactly like me. He had my blond hair, though his had been lightened by the Arizona summer sun, whereas I got mine highlighted at the salon. We shared the same nose and the same brown eyes. August’s second toe was longer than his big toe, something he’d also inherited from me.
He was mine.
Mine alone. The lawyer I’d hired when August was a newborn had assured me that once Devan had signed his rights away, Gus was mine.
It wasn’t the life I’d wanted for my son, to grow up without a father, but it was better this way. Devan hadn’t wanted a child and no amount of coercion would have turned him into a decent parent.
So I showered my son with love and attention. I would, shamelessly, for the rest of his life.
Good luck to any girlfriend he brought home. Fathers were allowed to put boyfriends through an interrogation. Well, this mother was taking that liberty too.
The sound of a math game drifted through the cab as August played on my phone. The dings and chimes of the app mixed with the hum from the wheels on the road.
And I breathed as the miles toward California whipped by.
It was only a state. Only a name. But somewhere along the way after we’d left Temecula, California had become synonymous with the past.
California meant hungry days. California meant dark nights. California meant death.
It was the reason Aria wouldn’t go back. Same with Katherine. Neither of them had any desire to set foot in California again. Maybe, if I’d begged, Aria would have come with me, but I wouldn’t have asked that from her. Besides, she’d just had a baby and was in no shape for a road trip.
Aria and Brody were currently enduring the sleepless, grueling nights as parents of a newborn. Logistically, it made sense for me to take this trip now. Brody was both brother-in-law and boss, so while he was taking time to spend with Aria and the baby, there was a lull in work to do as his assistant. With August on summer break from school, this was the window.
Or maybe I knew that if I kept avoiding the trip, I’d never take it.
I could do this.
I have to do this.
Because for twelve years, I’d been holding on to a hope. A distant hope, but one powerful enough that it had kept me from letting go and moving forward.
It was time.
After only thirty minutes, August gave up on his math game. He asked me another long string of questions, and then by some miracle, he fell asleep. Swimming at the hotel last night must have worn him out.
He was drooped in his chair, his head hanging down at an angle that would have given me a neck kink, when we approached the California border. Elyria sat on the coast, north of San Diego, and we still had hours to drive, but crossing the border was a hurdle of its own.
I’d opted for a southern route through Arizona, wanting to avoid Los Angeles traffic. And Temecula.
Visiting California was enough for one weekend. Returning to the town where we’d spent our childhood was an entirely different matter. Temecula had happy memories from the early years, from the happy lives Aria and I had lived before our parents had been killed in a car accident when we were ten. After that, I could count the number of happy memories on one hand. Temecula was full of ghosts, and though they still called to me at times, I wouldn’t go there even with August as my steadfast companion.
This trip was about closure. It was about Karson. That was plenty.
I gripped the wheel, my heart in my throat, as I passed the sign at the state border. California.
My stomach rolled and sweat beaded at my temple. I sucked in a long breath, dragging it through my nose to then push out my mouth. In and out. In and out, Clara. Just like Karson had taught me years ago when he’d witnessed one of my panic attacks.
I hadn’t had one in years.
My hands were trembling when my phone rang. I stretched for it in the passenger seat, checking that August was still asleep. It always amazed me that he could sleep through about anything.
“Hey,” I answered, not at all surprised that my sister was calling. Whether it was a twin thing or a sister thing, we usually had a good pulse on each other’s moods, even thousands of miles apart.
“Hi.” Aria yawned. “Are you okay?”
“No,” I admitted. “This is harder than I thought it would be.”
“Are you in California?”
“Yes.” I blew out a trembling breath. “I can do this, right?”
“You can do this. You’re the bravest person I know.”
“No, you are.”
Aria had brought us both through the hardest time in our lives. While I’d fallen apart after our parents’ deaths, she’d kept us moving. Ten-year-old me had gone comatose for a few weeks, mostly from the shock. What kid wouldn’t buckle under that much heartbreak? Aria. Maybe it was because I’d needed her and she’d stayed strong. She’d kept me going through the motions until the fog of grief had cleared.
Then I’d vowed never to fall apart again. As a child, I’d made good on that promise to myself. As an adult and parent, failing was not an option.
Aria thought I could make this trip and she was right. I could do this.
Granted, she didn’t know what had happened with Karson. Maybe if she knew the truth, she would have given me different advice.
“How are you doing? How’s Trace?” I asked, needing a different topic to focus on.
“We’re both good.” There was a smile in her voice and a tiny squeak hit my ear. “He’s nursing. I think he likes his name.”
“Because it’s perfect.” Broderick Carmichael the Third. Trace. It had taken them over five days to give the baby a name, but when I’d called to check in last night from the hotel, Aria and Brody had proudly announced Trace.
“How is the drive?” Aria asked.
“It’s fine. Taking forever according to August.”
Aria laughed and yawned again.
“I’ll let you go. Take a nap if you can, okay?”
“That’s the plan. Brody fell asleep about an hour ago. Once he wakes up, we’re switching.”
I was glad she had him. I was glad he had her.
Maybe it had been watching my sister fall in love with my friend that had been the final push to send me on this trip. Someday, maybe, I wanted love. I wanted a man to hold me at night. I wanted a man who’d be a good role model to August. I wanted a man who made me feel cherished.
Until I confronted the past, I’d always wonder. I’d always compare.
I’d always think of Karson.
“Call me when you get there,” Aria said.
“I will.”
“Take a picture of Karson with the car if you can. I think Londyn would like to see that.”
“Good idea. I think she would too,” I said.
“Love you.”
“Love you. Bye.”
When I ended the call, the anxiety from earlier had lessened. That was the way with my sister. On a bad day, we had each other. It had been that way our entire lives.
There was a good chance—better than good—that I’d return home with a bit of a bruised heart. And she’d be there to help it heal.
I can do this.
There was no turning back now. The Cadillac had sat in my garage for too long as it was. Maybe it would have been easier if not for the track record with these handoffs. For every trip this Cadillac had taken, one of my friends had found love.
Londyn had met Brooks in West Virginia, thanks to a flat tire.
Gemma had returned to Montana and found Easton waiting.
Katherine and Cash had fallen in love on the sleepy highways between Montana and Oregon.
Aria had come to Arizona and realized the hate she’d harbored for Brody had actually been affection.
I had no delusions that this trip would result in a major life change. I fully expected to be the one woman who returned home single. Months of preparing myself for that reality hadn’t made it easier to swallow.
Yet there was that glimmer of hope I’d buried deep. It mingled with the fear because, unlike my friends, I hadn’t set out into the unknown unsuspecting.
I knew exactly who I was seeking.
Had his smile changed? Did he grin like he used to? God, I hoped so.
I hoped that whatever had happened to Karson in the past twelve years, his smile hadn’t dulled. Because on my darkest nights, when the ghosts escaped their confines at the California border and drifted into Arizona, it was the memory of Karson’s smile that chased them away.
That, and my son.
August stirred, blinking heavy eyelids as he came awake.
“Hey, bud.”
“Are we there yet?”
I gave him a sad smile. “No, not yet. But we’re getting closer.”
He sagged in his seat, his eyes still sleepy and his cheeks flushed. “Mommy?”
“Yeah?” My heart squeezed each time he slipped and called me Mommy. One of his friends at school last year had told August that he called his mom Mom and not Mommy. From that day forward, I’d been Mom except for the rare moments when he was still my baby boy.
“Do you think we can go swimming as soon as we get there?” he asked.
“Probably not right away,” I said. “First we need to stop by my friend’s house. Remember?”
“Oh, yeah. Is it going to take a long time?”
“No, not too long.”
“Then we can see the ocean, right?”
“Yes, then we’ll see the ocean.”
August yawned but sat straighter. His eyes lost their sleepy haze and his gaze flicked out his window, chasing the sage brush and sand that bordered the interstate. “What do you think is more scary, a shark or a lion?”
This boy would never know how grateful I was for his questions. He’d never know that he kept me grounded. He kept me sane. He kept me going. “That depends. Is it a hammerhead shark or a tiger shark?”
“Hammerhead.”
“A lion.”
He nodded. “Me too.”
The questions continued until the open road clogged with vehicles and the Cadillac was swallowed up in traffic. August was about to come out of his skin by the time we made it to the outskirts of San Diego.
We stopped for lunch and August devoured a well-earned Happy Meal at McDonald’s. Then after a refill at a gas station, we loaded up once more for the drive along the coast. After we passed the city, the Sunday traffic moved in the opposite direction, most people returning home after a weekend trip.
Thirty miles outside of Elyria, the ocean came into view, and I decided to pop off the interstate for a quieter highway that hugged the coast. August’s eyes were wide as he stared at blue water and the waves glittering under the bright July sun.
“Let’s do something fun,” I told August, touching the brake to ease us into a turnout along the road.
“What?” He bounced in his chair, then his jaw dropped when I moved to put the convertible top down. “Cool!”
We both laughed as I pulled onto the road. August’s hands shot into the air, his hair, in need of a cut, tousling in the salt-tinged wind.
He needed sunscreen. He should be wearing sunglasses. But for thirty miles, fun was more important than being the responsible mother every moment of every day. That and I didn’t want to do anything to ruin that smile on his face.
I needed that smile as the nerves crept in, twisting up my insides and making it hard to breathe. So I braced my knee against the wheel and raised my arms. “Woohoo!”
“Woohoo!” August cheered with me.
His laughter was the balm to my soul, and I soaked it in, reminding myself that this was August’s trip too. This was his summer vacation to the ocean, something he could brag about on his first day of first grade this fall.
Vacation. We’d explore the oceanside. We’d shop for souvenirs we didn’t need and eat too much ice cream. We’d have a fun trip, then go home. Brody had volunteered his jet to save August from a two-day return trip in a rental car.
The speed limit dropped as we passed a sign welcoming us to Elyria.
I gulped.
My phone chimed with directions through town toward the address I’d entered days ago. Brightly colored shops lined the main road. A couple crossed the road ahead, each carrying surf boards. Signs for parking areas sprang up every few blocks, directing people toward the beach.
Later I’d explore this charming town, but at the moment I kept my focus forward, listening intently to the navigation. When I turned down a side street, I was so anxious I didn’t bother taking in the neighborhood around us.
Then we were there. Karson’s address. The destination was on our left.
I slowed the Cadillac to a crawl in front of a white stucco house with arched windows and a terra-cotta roof. The tiled walkway to the front door was the same rich, caramel brown as the clay. Two baby palm trees towered over the green yard, and off to the side of the house was a garage.
I pulled around the corner, parking in the driveway. The thunder of my heart was so loud I barely registered August’s question.
“Mom, is this it?”
I managed a nod as I turned off the car and unbuckled my seat belt. Then I stared at the house. How would I make it to the front door? Maybe I should have called first. Karson might not even be home. If not, I guess we’d come back later.
But this was definitely his house. I double-checked the number beside the garage door.
“Can I get out?” August asked, already unbuckling his harness.
“Sure.” I’d need him with me for this.
I climbed out of the car, walking on unsteady legs to his side to help him out. Then with my son’s hand in mine, I stood in the driveway and let the sun warm my face. The sound of the ocean was a gentle whisper on the air. The scent of salt and sea hit my nose.
Aria had lived on the Oregon coast for years, and though the smell was similar, there was something sweeter in the Elyria air.
Karson had always said he wanted to be close to the ocean. He’d wanted to learn how to surf. I was glad he’d gotten that wish.
The sound of a door opening caught my attention and I turned, just in time to watch a tall man with dark hair step outside. A short-trimmed beard shaded his sculpted jaw. He was wearing a pair of khaki cargo shorts slung low on his narrow hips. His green T-shirt stretched over his broad chest and clung to the strength in his biceps. His feet were bare.
Karson.
My heart skipped.
He’d grown up. Gone were the lanky arms and legs. Gone was the shaggy hair in need of a cut. Gone was the youth from his face.
This was Karson Avery, a man who stole my breath. But he’d done that at nineteen too.
Those beautiful hazel eyes studied me, then darted to the car as he came toward us. A crease formed between his eyebrows as he took it in. Then they moved to me and that crease deepened.
My stomach did a cartwheel. Please recognize me.
If he didn’t . . . I clung to August’s hand, drawing strength from his fingers. It would break my heart if Karson had forgotten me. Because in all these years, he’d never been far from my mind.
Karson’s feet stopped abruptly and his entire body froze. Then he blinked and shook his head. “Clara?”
Oh, thank God. I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Hi, Karson.”
“I can’t believe it.” He shook his head again, then his gaze shifted to August. “Hi there.”
August clutched me tighter and murmured, “Hi.”
“Is it really you?”
“It’s me.”
“It’s really you.” A slow smile spread across his face, wider and wider.
It hadn’t changed. There, on the face of a man, was the smile from the boy I’d loved.
The boy I’d loved before his life had gone one direction and mine had gone the other.
And between us streaked those dotted lines.
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Dotted Lines
September 28, 2020
EXCERPT: Rifts and Refrains
Read the first chapter from USA Today Bestselling Author Devney Perry's standalone,
Rifts and Refrains
.
CHAPTER 1
Quinn
“The funeral is Saturday.”
I nodded.
“I know you’re busy, but if you could come, your father would . . . I know he’d appreciate the support.”
Beyond my dressing room door, a dull roar bloomed. Hands clapped. Voices screamed. The beat of stomping feet vibrated the floors. The opening act must be on their last set because the crowd was pumped. The stadium would be primed when Hush Note took the stage.
“Quinn, are you there?”
I cleared my throat, blinking away the sheen of tears. “I’m here. Sorry.”
“Will you come?”
In nine years, my mother had never asked me to return to Montana. Not for Christmases. Not for birthdays. Not for weddings. Was it as hard for her to ask as it was for me to answer?
“Yeah,” I choked out. “I’ll be there. Tomorrow.”
Her relief cascaded through the phone. “Thank you.”
“Sure. I need to go.” I hung up without waiting for her goodbye, then stood from the couch and crossed the room to the mirror, making sure my tears hadn’t disturbed my eyeliner and mascara.
A fist pounded on the door. “Quinn, five minutes.”
Thank God. I needed to get the hell out of this room and forget that phone call.
I chugged the last of my vodka tonic and reapplied a coat of red lipstick, then scanned the room for my drumsticks. They went with me nearly everywhere—Jonas teased they were my security blanket—and I’d had them earlier, on the table. Except now it was bare, save for my plate of uneaten food. The sticks weren’t on the couch either. The only time I’d left the dressing room was when I’d gone to get a cocktail and a sandwich.
Who the fuck came into my dressing room and took them? I marched to the door and flung it open, letting a rage brew to chase away some of the pain in my heart.
“Where are my sticks?” I shouted down the hallway. “Whoever took them is fired.”
A short, balding man emerged from behind the door where he’d been hovering. He was new to the crew, having been hired only two weeks ago. His cheeks flushed as he held out his hand, my sticks in his sweaty grip. “Oh, uh . . . here.”
I ripped them from his hand. “Why were you in my dressing room?”
His face blanched.
Yep. Fired.
I didn’t allow men in my dressing room. It was a widely known fact among the crew that, unless you were on a very short list of exceptions, my dressing room was off-limits to anyone with a penis.
The rule hadn’t always existed, but after a string of bad experiences it had become mandatory.
There’d been the time I’d returned to my dressing room to find a man in the middle of the space, his jeans and whitey-tighties bunched at his ankles as he’d presented me his tiny glory. Then there’d been the show when I’d come in to find two women making out on my couch—they’d mistaken my dressing room for Nixon’s.
The final straw had been three years ago. I’d been drenched from a show and desperate to get out of my sweaty clothes. Pounding on the drums for an hour under hot lights usually left me dripping. I’d stripped off my jeans and tank top, standing there wearing only a bra and panties, and reached for the duffel I brought with me to every show. When I opened my bag to take out spare clothes, I’d found them coated in jizz.
So no more men—short, tall, bald or hairy.
“S-sorry,” Shorty stammered. “I thought I’d hold them for you.”
Beyond him, my tour manager, Ethan, came rushing down the hall, mouthing sorry with wide eyes. Ethan was the peacemaker, but he’d be too late to save Shorty.
In a way, I was glad this guy had snuck into my dressing room and taken my sticks. I needed a target, somewhere to aim this raging grief before it brought me to my knees, and this asshole had a bull’s-eye on his forehead.
I almost felt bad for him.
“You wanted to hold them for me?” I waved my hand, Zildjian sticks included. The crew bustled around us, keeping a wide berth as they prepped to switch out the stage configuration. “Were you also going to hold Jonas’s Warwick? Or Nixon’s Fender? Is that what your job is today? Holding stuff for the band?”
“I, uh—”
“Fuck you, creep.” I pointed my sticks at his nose. “Get the fuck out of my sight before I use your head as a snare.”
“Quinn.” Ethan collided with my side, putting his arm around my shoulders. He gave me a brief squeeze, then spun me around and nudged me into the dressing room. “Why don’t you finish getting ready?”
Behind my back, I heard Shorty mutter, “Bitch.”
Why was a woman a bitch when she didn’t let a man off the hook for this kind of shit behavior? If a guy were standing in my shoes, Shorty wouldn’t have dared enter the dressing room in the first place.
“He’s fired, Ethan,” I shot over my shoulder.
“I’ll take care of it.”
I kicked the door closed and took a deep breath.
Damn it, why was our tour over already? Why was tonight the last night? What I really needed was a packed schedule of travel and shows so that going to Montana for a funeral was impossible.
Except there were no excuses to make this time. There was no avoiding this goodbye, and deep down, I knew I’d hate myself if I tried.
Somehow, I’d find the courage.
Tears threatened again, and I squeezed my eyes shut. Why hadn’t I grabbed more vodka?
After this show in Boston, I’d planned to return home to Seattle and write music. The summer tour was over, and we had nothing scheduled for a month. Except now, instead of Washington, I’d fly to Montana.
For Nan.
My beloved grandmother, who I’d spoken to on Monday, had died in her sleep last night.
“Knock. Knock.” The door inched open and Ethan poked his head inside. “Ready?”
“Ready.” I clutched my sticks in my hand, drawing strength from the smooth wood. Then I followed him outside and through the crush of people.
The crowd’s cheers grew louder with every step toward the stage. Nixon and Jonas were already waiting to go on. Nix was bouncing on his feet and cracking his neck. Jonas was whispering something in his fiancée Kira’s ear, making her laugh.
“Are you okay?” Ethan asked as he escorted me toward them.
“Change of plans for tomorrow. I’m not going to Seattle. Can you make arrangements for me to go to Bozeman, Montana, instead?”
“Um . . . sure.” He nodded as confusion clouded his expression.
In all the years Ethan had been our tour manager, he’d never had to arrange for me to take a break from the show lineup for a trip to my childhood home. Because since I’d walked away at eighteen, I hadn’t been back.
“I want to leave first thing in the morning.”
“Quinn, are you—”
I held up a hand. “Not now.”
“There she is.” Nixon grinned as I approached, his excitement palpable. Like me, he lived for these shows. He lived for the rush and the adrenaline. He lived to leave it all on stage and let the audience sweep us away for the next hour.
Jonas smiled too, but it faltered as he took in my face. “Are you okay?”
Where Ethan was the peacemaker and Nixon the entertainer, Jonas was the caretaker. The designated leader by default. When Nixon and I didn’t want to deal with something, like a Grammy acceptance speech or hiring a new keyboardist, Jonas was there, always willing to step up.
Maybe we relied on him too much. Maybe the reason it had been so hard to write new music lately was because I wasn’t sure of my own role anymore.
Drummer? Writer? Token female?
Bitch?
Shorty’s damn voice was stuck in my head. “Some guy from the stage crew came into my dressing room and took my sticks. He was ‘holding them’ for me.”
It was better they think that was the reason I was upset. Ethan wouldn’t ask questions about my trip tomorrow, but Jonas and Nixon would.
“He’s fired.” Jonas looked to Ethan, who held up a hand.
“It’s already done.”
“Good luck, you guys.” Kira gave Jonas another kiss and waved at Nixon. She was a little less friendly toward me—my fault, not hers—but she smiled.
I hadn’t exactly been welcoming when she’d gotten together with Jonas. I’d been wary, rightfully so. His taste in women before Kira was abhorrent.
“Thanks, Kira.” I offered her the warmest smile I could muster before she and Ethan slipped away to where they’d watch the show.
Jonas held out one hand for mine and his other for Nixon’s. As we linked together, we shuffled into a shoulder-to-shoulder circle.
This was a ritual we’d started years ago. I couldn’t remember exactly when or how it had begun, but now it was something we didn’t miss. It was as critical to a performance as my drum kit and their guitars. We stood together, eyes closed and without words, connecting for a quiet moment before we went on stage.
Then Jonas squeezed my hand, signaling it was time.
Here we go.
I dropped their hands and, with my shoulders pinned back and my sticks gripped tight, walked past them to the dark stage. The cheers washed over me. The chanting of Hush Note, Hush Note seeped into my bones. I moved right for my kit, sat on my stool, and put my foot on the bass drum.
Boom.
The crowd went wild.
Nixon walked on stage and lights from thousands of cameras flashed.
Boom.
Jonas strode toward a microphone. “Hello, Boston!”
The screams were deafening.
Boom.
Then we unleashed.
The rhythm of my drums swallowed me up. I escaped into the music and let it numb the pain. I played like my heart wasn’t broken and pretended that the woman who’d supported me from afar these past nine years was clapping in the front row.
Tonight, I’d be the award-winning drummer. The Golden Sticks.
Tomorrow, I’d be Quinn Montgomery.
And tomorrow, I’d have no choice but to go home.
***
“What are you doing here?”
Nixon shrugged from his seat on our jet. His eyes were shaded with sunglasses, and he was wearing the same clothes he’d changed into after last night’s show. “Heard you were taking a trip. Thought I’d tag along.”
“Have you even been to sleep yet?” I walked to his seat and plucked the glasses off his face, and the sight of his glassy eyes made me cringe. “Nix—”
“Shush.” He took the sunglasses from my hand and returned them to his face. “After nap time.”
I frowned and plopped into the seat across the aisle. His partying was getting out of hand.
The attendant emerged from the galley with a Bloody Mary. “Here you go, Nix.”
First-name basis already? This one wasn’t wasting any time.
“I want an orange juice,” I ordered, drawing her attention. “And a glass of water, no ice. And a cup of coffee.”
“Anything else I can get you?” she asked, her question aimed at Nixon, not me.
He waved her off with a grin.
“Do not get any ideas of taking her to the bedroom,” I said after she was out of earshot. “She’s probably already poked holes in a condom.”
Nixon chuckled. “So cynical this morning.”
“Helpful, not cynical. Think of how many skanks I’ve chased off with my prickly attitude. Think of how many ‘accidental’ pregnancies I’ve help you avoid. You could say you’re welcome.”
He laughed, sipping his drink. “So where are we going?”
“I assumed Ethan told you since you’re sitting here.”
“Okay, let me rephrase. Why are we going to Montana? You never go home.”
I stared out the window, watching the ground crew motioning to our pilots. “Nan died.”
Voicing the words was like a hammer to my chest, and every ounce of my strength went to keeping the tears at bay.
“Fuck.” Nixon’s hand stretched across the aisle, and his fingers closed over my forearm. “I’m sorry, Quinn. I’m so, so sorry. Why didn’t you say anything? We could have canceled last night’s show.”
“I needed it.” Of all people, Nix would understand the need to disappear into something for an hour to avoid reality.
“What can I do?”
“Don’t fuck the attendant until after you drop me off.”
He chuckled. “Done. Anything else?”
“Help me write a song for her. For Nan,” I whispered.
“You got it.” His hand tightened on my arm, then fell away as the attendant returned with my drinks. She set them on a table, leaving us to relax in the plush leather seats as the pilot came back to greet us and confirm our flight schedule.
When he disappeared into the cockpit, I put on my headphones and closed my eyes, listening to nothing as we prepared to depart. Nixon saw it as my signal that I didn’t want to talk and settled deeper into his chair. He was snoring before we were wheels up, soaring above the clouds.
And I was flying home, dreading the return I’d put off for nearly a decade.
The last time I’d seen Nan, or any of my family members, had been nine years ago. I’d left home at eighteen, ready to break free and chase my dreams. The first year had been the hardest, but then I’d found Jonas and Nixon and our band had become my makeshift family. With every passing year, it had been easier and easier to stay away from Montana. It had been easier to avoid the past.
Except the easy way out had also been the coward’s path. I’d missed the chance to tell Nan goodbye.
She wouldn’t call me on Mondays anymore. There would be no more cards in the mail on my birthday, stuffed with a twenty-dollar bill. Nan wouldn’t boast to her water aerobics class that her famous granddaughter had won a People’s Choice Award, then call to tell me exactly what she’d bragged.
Tears welled as the sunlight streamed through my window. I blinked them away, refusing to cry with the flight attendant checking on us constantly, waiting for Nixon to wake up. I turned on my music and cranked the volume so loud the sound was nearly painful. Then I tapped my foot, matching the tempo. My fingers drummed on the armrests of my chair.
I lost myself in the rhythm, like I had last night, only this was someone else’s beat.
My own seemed fragile at the moment, like a pane of glass that would shatter if I hit it too hard. I was tiptoeing around my own talent, avoiding it, because lately I’d been questioning my ability to craft something new.
This creative block was crushing me.
Nixon’s deepening love affair with cocaine, alcohol and whatever other substances he was putting into his body had hindered his creative prowess as of late too.
Our record label had been hounding us for months to get going on the next album. Jonas was flying home to Maine to write new lyrics. Since he’d found Kira this past year—his muse—most of his recent songs were fluffier than we’d recorded on previous albums. Nixon and I had both vetoed a couple of his drafts, but some of it had great potential.
If we could match them to a tune.
That’s where Nixon and I came in. Jonas had a gift with words. Nixon and I wielded the notes.
Jonas’s recent lyrics needed the right amount of love in the melody. They needed a hint of angst to keep them interesting and an edge to be rock and roll. Explaining what I wanted in each song was simple. Stringing together something tangible was proving to be a challenge.
Things had been so much simpler when he’d only written about sex.
Now that we had a break in our schedule, I was anxious to get home to Seattle, where I could hole up in my apartment and sit behind my piano until it clicked.
But first I’d spend a week in Montana saying goodbye.
I loathed goodbyes, so I avoided them.
Not this time.
The knot in my stomach tightened with every passing hour. When the pilot announced we were beginning our descent, I shot out of my seat, raced to the bathroom and puked.
“You okay?” Nixon asked, handing me a piece of gum as I emerged and took my seat.
“Yeah, thanks.”
“Sure?”
“Just nerves.”
Hell, I hadn’t been this nervous since Hush Note’s early days. I didn’t get keyed up before shows anymore, not after years and years of practice. Besides, the moments on stage were the best part of this life. Playing for thousands of people live or playing for millions of people on television, my hands never shook. My stomach was rock solid.
But this? Returning home to my family. Returning home for a funeral. Returning home to him.
I was terrified.
Nixon’s hand closed over my forearm once more, and he didn’t let go until the plane touched down.
“I don’t want to be here,” I confessed as we taxied across the runway.
“Want me to stay?” His eyes, clearer after his nap, were full of tenderness.
He’d stay if I said yes. He’d be miserable and bored, but he’d stay. A part of me wanted to use him as a buffer between me and my family, but his presence and fame would only make things harder.
My face wasn’t as recognizable on the street as his, and I didn’t get half of his attention because I wasn’t one of the guys. I wasn’t the lead on stage, singing into a microphone as I played a guitar. Nixon had been People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive three years ago. This year’s reigning man was Jonas.
The last thing we needed this week were swooning fans wanting autographs.
I wanted to get in and out of Montana without much fuss. I was here to pay my respects to Nan and then I was going home.
Alone.
“No, but thanks.” The plane stopped and the pilot came out to open the door as I collected my things. “Where will you go? Home to Seattle?”
“Nah. I’m feeling somewhere tropical. Hawaii’s close.”
“Please don’t drink so many dirty bananas that you forget to pick me up. Next Monday. Should I write it down?”
“No, but you’d better make sure Ethan has that in his calendar.”
“I will.” I laughed, bending to kiss his stubbled cheek. “Thanks for flying with me.”
“Welcome.”
“You’re a good guy, Nix.”
He put a finger to his lips. “Don’t tell. It’s easier to get women into bed when they think you’re the bad boy.”
“Annnd you’re also a pig.” I frowned as the attendant came over, batting her eyelashes as she handed Nixon a cocktail. When had he even ordered that drink? Maybe I should make him stay with me and force him to be sober for a week. “Don’t go crazy. Are you going to be okay?”
“I’m a rock star, baby.” He flashed me a smile, the devilish one he saved for his fans and women. It was the stage smile that masked his demons. “I’m fucking awesome.”
Lies. He was far from awesome, but I wasn’t sure how to help him. Not when he was on a mission to lose himself in sex and booze and drugs like he did every summer.
“Thanks again.” I waved. “Enjoy your flight attendant.”
“Enjoy your time home.”
My stomach pitched at his parting words. I slung my backpack over my shoulder and headed toward the door. At the base of the jet’s stairs, my suitcase was waiting with the pilot.
I nodded a farewell and fished a pair of sunglasses from my bag, sliding them on before crossing the tarmac. The path from the private runway to the terminal was marked by yellow arrows on the charcoal asphalt.
The sunshine blazed hot on my shoulders as I pulled the hood on my black jacket over my blond hair. It was the best way to keep from being recognized, and with the mood I was in, it would do no good to be spotted by a fan today.
The summer breeze blew across my face, bringing that clean mountain air to my nose. We’d spent too many days breathing recycled air in buses and planes and hotels. I might have traded my country upbringing for a life in the city and preferred it as such, but this fresh, pure air was unbeatable.
Montana had a wholly unique smell of mountains and majesty.
I reached the terminal door too soon and stepped into the air conditioning. Ethan had reserved a rental car and a hotel suite for me, and as soon as I was checked into my room, I was planning on a long, hot shower. Then I’d unpack and go through the hotel move-in routine I’d perfected over the years.
My toiletries would be lined up beside the bathroom sink. I’d put my clothes in drawers and stow my suitcase in the closet. Then I’d search for a TV channel in a foreign language. I didn’t speak a foreign language, but I liked the background noise to drown out any sounds from the hallway.
It was a trick I’d learned in Berlin on our first European tour. These days, I couldn’t sleep in a hotel room without the TV blaring some drama in Spanish, French or German.
If it was loud enough, I’d be able to cry without fear someone would overhear.
I spotted the rental car desk, but before I could aim my feet in that direction, a familiar face caught my eye.
The world blurred.
Standing in the lobby of the airport was the boy I’d left behind.
Graham Hayes.
Except he wasn’t a boy anymore. He’d grown into a man. A handsome, breathtaking man who belonged on the cover of People beside Jonas and Nix.
He stood motionless with his eyes locked on me. The airport had been remodeled since I’d left, but the spot where he stood was almost exactly the place where I’d left him nine years ago. He’d been standing at the base of a staircase, watching me walk away.
I wouldn’t fool myself into thinking he’d been waiting here for my return.
What the hell was Graham doing here? I wasn’t ready to face him yet. I wasn’t ready to face any of them yet, but especially Graham.
He broke out of his stare and unglued his feet. His strides were easy and confident as he walked my way. His square jaw was covered in a well-trimmed beard, the shade matching the brown of his hair. It was longer than how he’d worn it as a teenager. Sexier. The man he’d become was beyond any version that I’d imagined during many lonely hotel nights.
I gulped as he neared. My heart raced.
This was not the plan. I was supposed to rent a car, go to my hotel and regroup. I needed time to regroup, damn it, and time to prepare.
Graham’s long legs in dark jeans ate up the distance between us. The sound of his boots on the floor pounded with the same thud of my heart.
Before I was ready, he stood in front of me.
“Quinn.” His voice was smooth and deep, lower than I remembered. He used to say my name with a smile, but there wasn’t a hint of one on his face.
“Hi, Graham.”
He wore a Hayes-Montgomery Construction T-shirt. My mother had sent me one of the same for Christmas two years ago.
He was the Hayes.
My brother, Walker, was the Montgomery.
The black cotton stretched across his broad chest. I’d spent many nights with my ear against that chest, but it hadn’t been as muscled back then. It had held promise, though, of the man he’d become.
The man he had become.
Everything about Graham seemed to have changed, even those golden-brown eyes. The vibrant color was the same as I saw in my dreams, but they were colder now. Distant. A change I couldn’t blame on time.
No, that one was on me.
“Let’s go.” He ripped the handle of my suitcase from my grip.
“I have a car reserved.” I pointed to the rental kiosk, but Graham turned and walked toward the doors. “Graham, I have a car.”
“Cancel it,” he clipped over a shoulder. “Your mom asked me to pick you up.”
“Fine,” I grumbled, yanking my phone from my pocket. Texting Ethan while keeping up with Graham’s punishing pace was difficult, and I looked up just in time to stop myself from crashing into a wall.
Oh, hell. It wasn’t just a wall. It was a wall holding a framed Hush Note poster, and there I was, in the center. My hair was thrown back as I pounded on the drums. Jonas was singing into a microphone while Nixon riffed on his guitar.
It was the poster our label had made for tour promo last year, and the airport had embellished it with a banner strung over the top.
Welcome to Bozeman.
Home of Quinn Montgomery, Hush Note’s Grammy Award-Winning Drummer.
Graham paused and looked back, likely wondering what was taking me so long. When he spotted the poster, he shot it a glare that might have incinerated the paper had it not been protected behind glass. Then he marched through the door, his strides even faster.
I jogged to keep up but was too far away to stop him from throwing my suitcase into the bed of a truck—an actual throw far more damaging than I’d ever seen from airline personnel.
“Get in.” He jerked his chin to the passenger door.
“Okay.” I bit my tongue.
Since my rental car was out, my new plan was to survive this ride to the hotel. Graham was upset, and I’d let it blow over. Ten minutes, fifteen tops, and we’d go our separate ways. I was here this week for Nan and causing drama with Graham would have upset her.
So I climbed in his truck and took a deep breath.
Graham’s scent surrounded me. As a boy, he’d smelled fresh and clean. It was still there, familiar and heartbreaking, but with a spicy undercurrent of musk and cologne and man. The heady, intoxicating smell wasn’t going to make this trip to the hotel any easier.
Before I had my seat belt buckled, Graham was behind the wheel and racing away from the curb.
I swallowed and braved conversation. “So, um . . . how have you been?”
His jaw ticked in response, but thankfully the radio filled the silence.
The Sirius XM Countdown continues with “Sweetness” by Hush Note. A song that’s been number one on our countdown for—
Graham stabbed the off button with his finger.
I faced the window.
So Graham wasn’t just upset. He was furious. Clearly nine years apart hadn’t turned me into a fond memory.
“I have a reservation at the Hilton Garden Inn. If you wouldn’t mind dropping me—”
“You’re going home.”
Right. End of discussion. Graham was doing a favor for my mother since my family would be busy on a Sunday morning. He’d been sent to retrieve me before I could disappear to my hotel.
Maybe I shouldn’t have been in such a hurry to leave the East Coast.
The drive through Bozeman was tense. I kept my gaze fixed outside, taking in the new buildings. The town had boomed over the years. Where there had once been open fields, there were now office complexes, shopping centers and restaurants.
It wasn’t until we approached downtown that the streets became more familiar and I was able to anticipate Graham’s turns. When we reached my childhood neighborhood, I marveled at the homes. Had they always been this small?
Then we were parked in front of my parents’ home. My home.
Finally, something that hadn’t changed. Slate-blue siding, white trim, black shutters and Mom’s red geraniums planted in a whiskey barrel by the front door.
“Thanks for dropping me off,” I told Graham, risking a glance his way. “Just like old times.”
He’d always insisted on dropping me off at my house even though he lived next door.
Except back then, he would have smiled and kissed me goodbye.
But that was before.
Before I’d broken his heart.
Before he’d shattered mine.
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CHAPTER 1
Quinn
“The funeral is Saturday.”
I nodded.
“I know you’re busy, but if you could come, your father would . . . I know he’d appreciate the support.”
Beyond my dressing room door, a dull roar bloomed. Hands clapped. Voices screamed. The beat of stomping feet vibrated the floors. The opening act must be on their last set because the crowd was pumped. The stadium would be primed when Hush Note took the stage.
“Quinn, are you there?”
I cleared my throat, blinking away the sheen of tears. “I’m here. Sorry.”
“Will you come?”
In nine years, my mother had never asked me to return to Montana. Not for Christmases. Not for birthdays. Not for weddings. Was it as hard for her to ask as it was for me to answer?
“Yeah,” I choked out. “I’ll be there. Tomorrow.”
Her relief cascaded through the phone. “Thank you.”
“Sure. I need to go.” I hung up without waiting for her goodbye, then stood from the couch and crossed the room to the mirror, making sure my tears hadn’t disturbed my eyeliner and mascara.
A fist pounded on the door. “Quinn, five minutes.”
Thank God. I needed to get the hell out of this room and forget that phone call.
I chugged the last of my vodka tonic and reapplied a coat of red lipstick, then scanned the room for my drumsticks. They went with me nearly everywhere—Jonas teased they were my security blanket—and I’d had them earlier, on the table. Except now it was bare, save for my plate of uneaten food. The sticks weren’t on the couch either. The only time I’d left the dressing room was when I’d gone to get a cocktail and a sandwich.
Who the fuck came into my dressing room and took them? I marched to the door and flung it open, letting a rage brew to chase away some of the pain in my heart.
“Where are my sticks?” I shouted down the hallway. “Whoever took them is fired.”
A short, balding man emerged from behind the door where he’d been hovering. He was new to the crew, having been hired only two weeks ago. His cheeks flushed as he held out his hand, my sticks in his sweaty grip. “Oh, uh . . . here.”
I ripped them from his hand. “Why were you in my dressing room?”
His face blanched.
Yep. Fired.
I didn’t allow men in my dressing room. It was a widely known fact among the crew that, unless you were on a very short list of exceptions, my dressing room was off-limits to anyone with a penis.
The rule hadn’t always existed, but after a string of bad experiences it had become mandatory.
There’d been the time I’d returned to my dressing room to find a man in the middle of the space, his jeans and whitey-tighties bunched at his ankles as he’d presented me his tiny glory. Then there’d been the show when I’d come in to find two women making out on my couch—they’d mistaken my dressing room for Nixon’s.
The final straw had been three years ago. I’d been drenched from a show and desperate to get out of my sweaty clothes. Pounding on the drums for an hour under hot lights usually left me dripping. I’d stripped off my jeans and tank top, standing there wearing only a bra and panties, and reached for the duffel I brought with me to every show. When I opened my bag to take out spare clothes, I’d found them coated in jizz.
So no more men—short, tall, bald or hairy.
“S-sorry,” Shorty stammered. “I thought I’d hold them for you.”
Beyond him, my tour manager, Ethan, came rushing down the hall, mouthing sorry with wide eyes. Ethan was the peacemaker, but he’d be too late to save Shorty.
In a way, I was glad this guy had snuck into my dressing room and taken my sticks. I needed a target, somewhere to aim this raging grief before it brought me to my knees, and this asshole had a bull’s-eye on his forehead.
I almost felt bad for him.
“You wanted to hold them for me?” I waved my hand, Zildjian sticks included. The crew bustled around us, keeping a wide berth as they prepped to switch out the stage configuration. “Were you also going to hold Jonas’s Warwick? Or Nixon’s Fender? Is that what your job is today? Holding stuff for the band?”
“I, uh—”
“Fuck you, creep.” I pointed my sticks at his nose. “Get the fuck out of my sight before I use your head as a snare.”
“Quinn.” Ethan collided with my side, putting his arm around my shoulders. He gave me a brief squeeze, then spun me around and nudged me into the dressing room. “Why don’t you finish getting ready?”
Behind my back, I heard Shorty mutter, “Bitch.”
Why was a woman a bitch when she didn’t let a man off the hook for this kind of shit behavior? If a guy were standing in my shoes, Shorty wouldn’t have dared enter the dressing room in the first place.
“He’s fired, Ethan,” I shot over my shoulder.
“I’ll take care of it.”
I kicked the door closed and took a deep breath.
Damn it, why was our tour over already? Why was tonight the last night? What I really needed was a packed schedule of travel and shows so that going to Montana for a funeral was impossible.
Except there were no excuses to make this time. There was no avoiding this goodbye, and deep down, I knew I’d hate myself if I tried.
Somehow, I’d find the courage.
Tears threatened again, and I squeezed my eyes shut. Why hadn’t I grabbed more vodka?
After this show in Boston, I’d planned to return home to Seattle and write music. The summer tour was over, and we had nothing scheduled for a month. Except now, instead of Washington, I’d fly to Montana.
For Nan.
My beloved grandmother, who I’d spoken to on Monday, had died in her sleep last night.
“Knock. Knock.” The door inched open and Ethan poked his head inside. “Ready?”
“Ready.” I clutched my sticks in my hand, drawing strength from the smooth wood. Then I followed him outside and through the crush of people.
The crowd’s cheers grew louder with every step toward the stage. Nixon and Jonas were already waiting to go on. Nix was bouncing on his feet and cracking his neck. Jonas was whispering something in his fiancée Kira’s ear, making her laugh.
“Are you okay?” Ethan asked as he escorted me toward them.
“Change of plans for tomorrow. I’m not going to Seattle. Can you make arrangements for me to go to Bozeman, Montana, instead?”
“Um . . . sure.” He nodded as confusion clouded his expression.
In all the years Ethan had been our tour manager, he’d never had to arrange for me to take a break from the show lineup for a trip to my childhood home. Because since I’d walked away at eighteen, I hadn’t been back.
“I want to leave first thing in the morning.”
“Quinn, are you—”
I held up a hand. “Not now.”
“There she is.” Nixon grinned as I approached, his excitement palpable. Like me, he lived for these shows. He lived for the rush and the adrenaline. He lived to leave it all on stage and let the audience sweep us away for the next hour.
Jonas smiled too, but it faltered as he took in my face. “Are you okay?”
Where Ethan was the peacemaker and Nixon the entertainer, Jonas was the caretaker. The designated leader by default. When Nixon and I didn’t want to deal with something, like a Grammy acceptance speech or hiring a new keyboardist, Jonas was there, always willing to step up.
Maybe we relied on him too much. Maybe the reason it had been so hard to write new music lately was because I wasn’t sure of my own role anymore.
Drummer? Writer? Token female?
Bitch?
Shorty’s damn voice was stuck in my head. “Some guy from the stage crew came into my dressing room and took my sticks. He was ‘holding them’ for me.”
It was better they think that was the reason I was upset. Ethan wouldn’t ask questions about my trip tomorrow, but Jonas and Nixon would.
“He’s fired.” Jonas looked to Ethan, who held up a hand.
“It’s already done.”
“Good luck, you guys.” Kira gave Jonas another kiss and waved at Nixon. She was a little less friendly toward me—my fault, not hers—but she smiled.
I hadn’t exactly been welcoming when she’d gotten together with Jonas. I’d been wary, rightfully so. His taste in women before Kira was abhorrent.
“Thanks, Kira.” I offered her the warmest smile I could muster before she and Ethan slipped away to where they’d watch the show.
Jonas held out one hand for mine and his other for Nixon’s. As we linked together, we shuffled into a shoulder-to-shoulder circle.
This was a ritual we’d started years ago. I couldn’t remember exactly when or how it had begun, but now it was something we didn’t miss. It was as critical to a performance as my drum kit and their guitars. We stood together, eyes closed and without words, connecting for a quiet moment before we went on stage.
Then Jonas squeezed my hand, signaling it was time.
Here we go.
I dropped their hands and, with my shoulders pinned back and my sticks gripped tight, walked past them to the dark stage. The cheers washed over me. The chanting of Hush Note, Hush Note seeped into my bones. I moved right for my kit, sat on my stool, and put my foot on the bass drum.
Boom.
The crowd went wild.
Nixon walked on stage and lights from thousands of cameras flashed.
Boom.
Jonas strode toward a microphone. “Hello, Boston!”
The screams were deafening.
Boom.
Then we unleashed.
The rhythm of my drums swallowed me up. I escaped into the music and let it numb the pain. I played like my heart wasn’t broken and pretended that the woman who’d supported me from afar these past nine years was clapping in the front row.
Tonight, I’d be the award-winning drummer. The Golden Sticks.
Tomorrow, I’d be Quinn Montgomery.
And tomorrow, I’d have no choice but to go home.
***
“What are you doing here?”
Nixon shrugged from his seat on our jet. His eyes were shaded with sunglasses, and he was wearing the same clothes he’d changed into after last night’s show. “Heard you were taking a trip. Thought I’d tag along.”
“Have you even been to sleep yet?” I walked to his seat and plucked the glasses off his face, and the sight of his glassy eyes made me cringe. “Nix—”
“Shush.” He took the sunglasses from my hand and returned them to his face. “After nap time.”
I frowned and plopped into the seat across the aisle. His partying was getting out of hand.
The attendant emerged from the galley with a Bloody Mary. “Here you go, Nix.”
First-name basis already? This one wasn’t wasting any time.
“I want an orange juice,” I ordered, drawing her attention. “And a glass of water, no ice. And a cup of coffee.”
“Anything else I can get you?” she asked, her question aimed at Nixon, not me.
He waved her off with a grin.
“Do not get any ideas of taking her to the bedroom,” I said after she was out of earshot. “She’s probably already poked holes in a condom.”
Nixon chuckled. “So cynical this morning.”
“Helpful, not cynical. Think of how many skanks I’ve chased off with my prickly attitude. Think of how many ‘accidental’ pregnancies I’ve help you avoid. You could say you’re welcome.”
He laughed, sipping his drink. “So where are we going?”
“I assumed Ethan told you since you’re sitting here.”
“Okay, let me rephrase. Why are we going to Montana? You never go home.”
I stared out the window, watching the ground crew motioning to our pilots. “Nan died.”
Voicing the words was like a hammer to my chest, and every ounce of my strength went to keeping the tears at bay.
“Fuck.” Nixon’s hand stretched across the aisle, and his fingers closed over my forearm. “I’m sorry, Quinn. I’m so, so sorry. Why didn’t you say anything? We could have canceled last night’s show.”
“I needed it.” Of all people, Nix would understand the need to disappear into something for an hour to avoid reality.
“What can I do?”
“Don’t fuck the attendant until after you drop me off.”
He chuckled. “Done. Anything else?”
“Help me write a song for her. For Nan,” I whispered.
“You got it.” His hand tightened on my arm, then fell away as the attendant returned with my drinks. She set them on a table, leaving us to relax in the plush leather seats as the pilot came back to greet us and confirm our flight schedule.
When he disappeared into the cockpit, I put on my headphones and closed my eyes, listening to nothing as we prepared to depart. Nixon saw it as my signal that I didn’t want to talk and settled deeper into his chair. He was snoring before we were wheels up, soaring above the clouds.
And I was flying home, dreading the return I’d put off for nearly a decade.
The last time I’d seen Nan, or any of my family members, had been nine years ago. I’d left home at eighteen, ready to break free and chase my dreams. The first year had been the hardest, but then I’d found Jonas and Nixon and our band had become my makeshift family. With every passing year, it had been easier and easier to stay away from Montana. It had been easier to avoid the past.
Except the easy way out had also been the coward’s path. I’d missed the chance to tell Nan goodbye.
She wouldn’t call me on Mondays anymore. There would be no more cards in the mail on my birthday, stuffed with a twenty-dollar bill. Nan wouldn’t boast to her water aerobics class that her famous granddaughter had won a People’s Choice Award, then call to tell me exactly what she’d bragged.
Tears welled as the sunlight streamed through my window. I blinked them away, refusing to cry with the flight attendant checking on us constantly, waiting for Nixon to wake up. I turned on my music and cranked the volume so loud the sound was nearly painful. Then I tapped my foot, matching the tempo. My fingers drummed on the armrests of my chair.
I lost myself in the rhythm, like I had last night, only this was someone else’s beat.
My own seemed fragile at the moment, like a pane of glass that would shatter if I hit it too hard. I was tiptoeing around my own talent, avoiding it, because lately I’d been questioning my ability to craft something new.
This creative block was crushing me.
Nixon’s deepening love affair with cocaine, alcohol and whatever other substances he was putting into his body had hindered his creative prowess as of late too.
Our record label had been hounding us for months to get going on the next album. Jonas was flying home to Maine to write new lyrics. Since he’d found Kira this past year—his muse—most of his recent songs were fluffier than we’d recorded on previous albums. Nixon and I had both vetoed a couple of his drafts, but some of it had great potential.
If we could match them to a tune.
That’s where Nixon and I came in. Jonas had a gift with words. Nixon and I wielded the notes.
Jonas’s recent lyrics needed the right amount of love in the melody. They needed a hint of angst to keep them interesting and an edge to be rock and roll. Explaining what I wanted in each song was simple. Stringing together something tangible was proving to be a challenge.
Things had been so much simpler when he’d only written about sex.
Now that we had a break in our schedule, I was anxious to get home to Seattle, where I could hole up in my apartment and sit behind my piano until it clicked.
But first I’d spend a week in Montana saying goodbye.
I loathed goodbyes, so I avoided them.
Not this time.
The knot in my stomach tightened with every passing hour. When the pilot announced we were beginning our descent, I shot out of my seat, raced to the bathroom and puked.
“You okay?” Nixon asked, handing me a piece of gum as I emerged and took my seat.
“Yeah, thanks.”
“Sure?”
“Just nerves.”
Hell, I hadn’t been this nervous since Hush Note’s early days. I didn’t get keyed up before shows anymore, not after years and years of practice. Besides, the moments on stage were the best part of this life. Playing for thousands of people live or playing for millions of people on television, my hands never shook. My stomach was rock solid.
But this? Returning home to my family. Returning home for a funeral. Returning home to him.
I was terrified.
Nixon’s hand closed over my forearm once more, and he didn’t let go until the plane touched down.
“I don’t want to be here,” I confessed as we taxied across the runway.
“Want me to stay?” His eyes, clearer after his nap, were full of tenderness.
He’d stay if I said yes. He’d be miserable and bored, but he’d stay. A part of me wanted to use him as a buffer between me and my family, but his presence and fame would only make things harder.
My face wasn’t as recognizable on the street as his, and I didn’t get half of his attention because I wasn’t one of the guys. I wasn’t the lead on stage, singing into a microphone as I played a guitar. Nixon had been People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive three years ago. This year’s reigning man was Jonas.
The last thing we needed this week were swooning fans wanting autographs.
I wanted to get in and out of Montana without much fuss. I was here to pay my respects to Nan and then I was going home.
Alone.
“No, but thanks.” The plane stopped and the pilot came out to open the door as I collected my things. “Where will you go? Home to Seattle?”
“Nah. I’m feeling somewhere tropical. Hawaii’s close.”
“Please don’t drink so many dirty bananas that you forget to pick me up. Next Monday. Should I write it down?”
“No, but you’d better make sure Ethan has that in his calendar.”
“I will.” I laughed, bending to kiss his stubbled cheek. “Thanks for flying with me.”
“Welcome.”
“You’re a good guy, Nix.”
He put a finger to his lips. “Don’t tell. It’s easier to get women into bed when they think you’re the bad boy.”
“Annnd you’re also a pig.” I frowned as the attendant came over, batting her eyelashes as she handed Nixon a cocktail. When had he even ordered that drink? Maybe I should make him stay with me and force him to be sober for a week. “Don’t go crazy. Are you going to be okay?”
“I’m a rock star, baby.” He flashed me a smile, the devilish one he saved for his fans and women. It was the stage smile that masked his demons. “I’m fucking awesome.”
Lies. He was far from awesome, but I wasn’t sure how to help him. Not when he was on a mission to lose himself in sex and booze and drugs like he did every summer.
“Thanks again.” I waved. “Enjoy your flight attendant.”
“Enjoy your time home.”
My stomach pitched at his parting words. I slung my backpack over my shoulder and headed toward the door. At the base of the jet’s stairs, my suitcase was waiting with the pilot.
I nodded a farewell and fished a pair of sunglasses from my bag, sliding them on before crossing the tarmac. The path from the private runway to the terminal was marked by yellow arrows on the charcoal asphalt.
The sunshine blazed hot on my shoulders as I pulled the hood on my black jacket over my blond hair. It was the best way to keep from being recognized, and with the mood I was in, it would do no good to be spotted by a fan today.
The summer breeze blew across my face, bringing that clean mountain air to my nose. We’d spent too many days breathing recycled air in buses and planes and hotels. I might have traded my country upbringing for a life in the city and preferred it as such, but this fresh, pure air was unbeatable.
Montana had a wholly unique smell of mountains and majesty.
I reached the terminal door too soon and stepped into the air conditioning. Ethan had reserved a rental car and a hotel suite for me, and as soon as I was checked into my room, I was planning on a long, hot shower. Then I’d unpack and go through the hotel move-in routine I’d perfected over the years.
My toiletries would be lined up beside the bathroom sink. I’d put my clothes in drawers and stow my suitcase in the closet. Then I’d search for a TV channel in a foreign language. I didn’t speak a foreign language, but I liked the background noise to drown out any sounds from the hallway.
It was a trick I’d learned in Berlin on our first European tour. These days, I couldn’t sleep in a hotel room without the TV blaring some drama in Spanish, French or German.
If it was loud enough, I’d be able to cry without fear someone would overhear.
I spotted the rental car desk, but before I could aim my feet in that direction, a familiar face caught my eye.
The world blurred.
Standing in the lobby of the airport was the boy I’d left behind.
Graham Hayes.
Except he wasn’t a boy anymore. He’d grown into a man. A handsome, breathtaking man who belonged on the cover of People beside Jonas and Nix.
He stood motionless with his eyes locked on me. The airport had been remodeled since I’d left, but the spot where he stood was almost exactly the place where I’d left him nine years ago. He’d been standing at the base of a staircase, watching me walk away.
I wouldn’t fool myself into thinking he’d been waiting here for my return.
What the hell was Graham doing here? I wasn’t ready to face him yet. I wasn’t ready to face any of them yet, but especially Graham.
He broke out of his stare and unglued his feet. His strides were easy and confident as he walked my way. His square jaw was covered in a well-trimmed beard, the shade matching the brown of his hair. It was longer than how he’d worn it as a teenager. Sexier. The man he’d become was beyond any version that I’d imagined during many lonely hotel nights.
I gulped as he neared. My heart raced.
This was not the plan. I was supposed to rent a car, go to my hotel and regroup. I needed time to regroup, damn it, and time to prepare.
Graham’s long legs in dark jeans ate up the distance between us. The sound of his boots on the floor pounded with the same thud of my heart.
Before I was ready, he stood in front of me.
“Quinn.” His voice was smooth and deep, lower than I remembered. He used to say my name with a smile, but there wasn’t a hint of one on his face.
“Hi, Graham.”
He wore a Hayes-Montgomery Construction T-shirt. My mother had sent me one of the same for Christmas two years ago.
He was the Hayes.
My brother, Walker, was the Montgomery.
The black cotton stretched across his broad chest. I’d spent many nights with my ear against that chest, but it hadn’t been as muscled back then. It had held promise, though, of the man he’d become.
The man he had become.
Everything about Graham seemed to have changed, even those golden-brown eyes. The vibrant color was the same as I saw in my dreams, but they were colder now. Distant. A change I couldn’t blame on time.
No, that one was on me.
“Let’s go.” He ripped the handle of my suitcase from my grip.
“I have a car reserved.” I pointed to the rental kiosk, but Graham turned and walked toward the doors. “Graham, I have a car.”
“Cancel it,” he clipped over a shoulder. “Your mom asked me to pick you up.”
“Fine,” I grumbled, yanking my phone from my pocket. Texting Ethan while keeping up with Graham’s punishing pace was difficult, and I looked up just in time to stop myself from crashing into a wall.
Oh, hell. It wasn’t just a wall. It was a wall holding a framed Hush Note poster, and there I was, in the center. My hair was thrown back as I pounded on the drums. Jonas was singing into a microphone while Nixon riffed on his guitar.
It was the poster our label had made for tour promo last year, and the airport had embellished it with a banner strung over the top.
Welcome to Bozeman.
Home of Quinn Montgomery, Hush Note’s Grammy Award-Winning Drummer.
Graham paused and looked back, likely wondering what was taking me so long. When he spotted the poster, he shot it a glare that might have incinerated the paper had it not been protected behind glass. Then he marched through the door, his strides even faster.
I jogged to keep up but was too far away to stop him from throwing my suitcase into the bed of a truck—an actual throw far more damaging than I’d ever seen from airline personnel.
“Get in.” He jerked his chin to the passenger door.
“Okay.” I bit my tongue.
Since my rental car was out, my new plan was to survive this ride to the hotel. Graham was upset, and I’d let it blow over. Ten minutes, fifteen tops, and we’d go our separate ways. I was here this week for Nan and causing drama with Graham would have upset her.
So I climbed in his truck and took a deep breath.
Graham’s scent surrounded me. As a boy, he’d smelled fresh and clean. It was still there, familiar and heartbreaking, but with a spicy undercurrent of musk and cologne and man. The heady, intoxicating smell wasn’t going to make this trip to the hotel any easier.
Before I had my seat belt buckled, Graham was behind the wheel and racing away from the curb.
I swallowed and braved conversation. “So, um . . . how have you been?”
His jaw ticked in response, but thankfully the radio filled the silence.
The Sirius XM Countdown continues with “Sweetness” by Hush Note. A song that’s been number one on our countdown for—
Graham stabbed the off button with his finger.
I faced the window.
So Graham wasn’t just upset. He was furious. Clearly nine years apart hadn’t turned me into a fond memory.
“I have a reservation at the Hilton Garden Inn. If you wouldn’t mind dropping me—”
“You’re going home.”
Right. End of discussion. Graham was doing a favor for my mother since my family would be busy on a Sunday morning. He’d been sent to retrieve me before I could disappear to my hotel.
Maybe I shouldn’t have been in such a hurry to leave the East Coast.
The drive through Bozeman was tense. I kept my gaze fixed outside, taking in the new buildings. The town had boomed over the years. Where there had once been open fields, there were now office complexes, shopping centers and restaurants.
It wasn’t until we approached downtown that the streets became more familiar and I was able to anticipate Graham’s turns. When we reached my childhood neighborhood, I marveled at the homes. Had they always been this small?
Then we were parked in front of my parents’ home. My home.
Finally, something that hadn’t changed. Slate-blue siding, white trim, black shutters and Mom’s red geraniums planted in a whiskey barrel by the front door.
“Thanks for dropping me off,” I told Graham, risking a glance his way. “Just like old times.”
He’d always insisted on dropping me off at my house even though he lived next door.
Except back then, he would have smiled and kissed me goodbye.
But that was before.
Before I’d broken his heart.
Before he’d shattered mine.
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June 23, 2020
EXCERPT: Wild Highway
Wild Highway, the second standalone in the Runaway series, is available now! Here's a special excerpt to enjoy.
Wild Highway
* * *
CHAPTER 1
Gemma
“I’m sorry, what did you say? Where are you? Kansas? As in Dorothy and Toto? That Kansas?” Benjamin’s string of questions came in his signature style—rapid-fire. “What happened to West Virginia?”
“I was in West Virginia,” I said into the phone. “Now I’m in Kansas.”
“B-but why?”
I didn’t need to see his face to know it was agape with shock. For too long, Benjamin had tracked my every move. He’d stood by my side as I’d created my empire and had executed my directives with precision. The rigidity of my schedule wasn’t just for my benefit. He’d managed it flawlessly for the past six years.
This trip of mine was going to freak him way the hell out.
“I have something important to tell you.”
“No.” He groaned. “I’m still dealing with the mess you left me the last time you had something important to tell me.”
“Sorry.” I hadn’t meant to shake up his world. But since I’d completely torpedoed mine, changes to his were inevitable.
Three weeks ago, I’d called Benjamin into my office and told him that I was no longer the CEO of Gemma Lane. That I’d sold my beloved cosmetics company and namesake to Procter & Gamble. The monster corporation had purchased my brand and skin care formulas for the bargain price of twelve million dollars.
The sale had been a spur-of-the-moment decision. I didn’t make those, not anymore. And ever since, I’d been waiting for a ping of regret. It hadn’t hit me yet.
Instead, I’d felt free.
Selling Gemma Lane had been the first spontaneous decision I’d made in years. The floodgates were open now and these past three weeks had seen countless decisions made entirely with personal motivations.
For eleven years, I’d given every shred of my concentration and energy to my businesses. I’d worked my ass off to make sure I’d never be poor or homeless or hungry again. I’d lived my life with extreme control, shutting out any added emotion that wouldn’t increase my bottom line.
Then I’d just . . . walked away.
All because of a pasta and breadsticks lunch with a former colleague.
I’d gotten a random phone call from my friend Julie. She’d worked with me selling real estate years before and we’d loosely kept in touch over the years. Neither of us had stayed in real estate, and while I’d chosen to create my own company, she’d worked her way up the executive ranks at Procter & Gamble.
We’d met for lunch to celebrate her recent promotion. And she’d asked me, point-blank, if I’d ever sell Gemma Lane. The word yes came from nowhere, shocking us both. We’d negotiated over the meal and Julie had taken my bottom-line number to her superiors.
Five hours later, I had the legal agreement in my inbox.
My life had flown out the window, like a ream of paper being tossed from my fourteenth-floor office on a windy day. Benjamin had been trying to catch the pages and stack them neatly again, except I just kept tossing more.
“I’m taking some time away,” I told him.
“In West Virginia. You’re supposed to be in West Virginia visiting Londyn. Wait, what’s that noise? Are you driving?”
“Yes. About that . . .” My best friend Londyn was the reason I was in this car. “I was in West Virginia visiting Londyn. But remember last year when I told you she was taking her Cadillac and driving it to California?”
“I do. Except she met Brooks in West Virginia and married him. What does this—” Benjamin stopped. He was a brilliant man and normally our conversations went this way—I’d start explaining and he’d jump to the end before I could finish my story. “No. Tell me you’re not taking this car to California yourself.”
“I’m taking the car to California myself.”
“Are you serious? You’re driving from West Virginia to California? Alone?”
“Yes, yes and yes.” I held my breath as the line went silent.
“You really have lost your goddamn mind.”
I laughed. “You’re not wrong.”
“Gemma, what is going on with you?” The concern in his voice tugged at my heart. “Is this a you-turned-thirty-this-year crisis? Should I call Dr. Brewer?”
“No.” I didn’t need my therapist getting involved. Dr. Brewer would dredge up the past, and my childhood was the last thing I wanted to discuss at the moment. “It was just time for a change.”
“A change? This is not a change. This is a nuclear explosion. You sold the company. Your baby. Gemma Lane was your life. You were there from five in the morning until eight at night every single day. Now it’s gone.”
I nodded, waiting for him to continue. This wasn’t the first time he’d reminded me of exactly what I’d done. Yet, I still didn’t feel like I’d made a huge mistake.
“Two weeks ago, you handed me an entirely new list of job duties, including managing all your assets and capital ventures while you disappeared to West Virginia. Now you’re driving to California? This isn’t you.”
“But it used to be,” I said.
I used to be impulsive and adventurous. Money and success were to blame for the caution that had invaded my life. A month ago, I’d had hundreds of employees counting on me to make the right decisions. They’d needed me to take care with my actions to ensure they had jobs. In worrying about them—for hours, days, years—I’d lost myself.
Now those employees would be working for Procter & Gamble. It had been part of my agreement that every one of my employees had future employment. Except for Benjamin. He’d always worked for me personally.
“I need this,” I confessed. “I used to be fun. I used to be daring and reckless. You wouldn’t even recognize that version of me.”
Benjamin had only known the Gemma consumed by work. He didn’t recognize me without the meetings, conference calls and galas. He didn’t see that the charity balls I used to love—the ones where I’d smile as I sipped champagne because Boston’s elite had let a lowly, runaway kid into their midst—were now suffocating and dull.
“Where is this coming from?” Benjamin asked. “I’m not buying this ‘I needed a change’ explanation. Something happened and you haven’t told me.”
Yes, something had happened, and I hadn’t told anyone, not even Londyn. “Remember Jason Jensen?”
“The guy who used to work in marketing?”
“Yes. He asked me to marry him.”
“What?” he shouted, the volume making me wince. “When? How long were you dating? How did I not know about this?”
“We dated for a few months. Obviously, we didn’t tell anyone because I was his boss’s boss. We agreed to keep it quiet, and I didn’t think we were serious. But then one night about a month ago, he took me to this fancy restaurant, got down on one knee and proposed.”
“Oh, Gemma. I’m sorry.” As always, Benjamin jumped to the end of my story.
“Don’t pity me. Pity Jason. He was sweet and handsome and kind. But I just . . . I couldn’t say yes. I didn’t love him.”
So in a restaurant full of people watching, I’d broken a good man’s heart.
“That’s why he quit,” Benjamin said.
“Yeah.”
The day Jason had left, I’d sat in my office alone, giving him space to pack his things and say goodbye to his coworkers. I’d stared out my wall of windows and wished I’d loved him.
He was gracious and caring. Jason hadn’t hated me for turning him down, he just couldn’t work for me any longer. I didn’t fault him for that. He’d loved unselfishly, not complaining that I’d been in the spotlight.
And I’d felt nothing but guilt.
“He just wasn’t the right guy,” Benjamin said. “That doesn’t mean you had to sell your company, your car and your brownstone. You gave up your life.”
“Was it really that good of a life?”
He sighed. “So what now?”
“I’m taking a road trip in this incredible car. Then . . . I don’t know.” Most of my belongings had either been donated to charity or put into storage. My house I’d sold furnished. What I had fit into the trunk of this car, and for today, it was enough.
I’d deal with tomorrow, well . . . tomorrow.
“What can I do?”
I smiled. Maybe Benjamin didn’t understand what I was doing, but he’d support me, nonetheless. “Exactly what you are doing.”
He was managing my assets, paying my bills and dealing with any questions that came up with my other business ventures. It was all work I’d done myself before the sale. It had been the second job I hadn’t needed but something to fill the lonely nights. Work had always been my forte.
Now I’d handed it over to Benjamin.
Since he no longer had to manage my hectic calendar and activities at Gemma Lane, he’d watch over my numerous real estate holdings, acting as the liaison to the property management company I’d hired years ago. Benjamin would step in and be the go-between with my financial managers.
The restaurants that had needed my influx of cash to get up and running were now some of Boston’s finest. They ran on autopilot. I owned an interest in a car dealership, one that peddled foreign luxury as opposed to the classic Americana I was currently driving. And I was also a partner in a fashion design company, the one that had designed the black sweater I was currently wearing along with a handful of others packed in my suitcase.
Benjamin would ensure we received regular profit and loss reports from my investments along with my annual dividends, then alert me to any red flags.
“Okay,” he said. “It will be in good hands until you get back.”
I bit my tongue, because as the open road stretched before me, there was a good chance I wouldn’t be back. I was on a new path now. Where it was going, I wasn’t sure. But the excitement, the freedom, was something I hadn’t felt in a long, long time.
“Call if you need anything. And, Benjamin?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
“Drive safely.”
I tossed my phone aside and put both hands on the white steering wheel.
Londyn’s cherry-red, 1964 Cadillac DeVille convertible was a dream to drive. The car sailed down the interstate, the wheels skimming over the asphalt as the body sliced through the air.
She’d paid a small fortune to restore this car from the rusted heap it had once been. Gone were the torn, flat seats. They’d been replaced with thick cushions covered with buttery, white leather that matched the wheel. The air-conditioning kept the cab from getting too hot, and when I felt like blasting music, the sound system was deafening.
This car’s look was different but the inside would always feel like Londyn’s home. As an old, abandoned wreck destined for the scrap pile, Londyn had chosen this Cadillac as her shelter in a junkyard we’d called home.
The junkyard in Temecula, California, where Londyn, four other kids and I had lived after running away from our respective homes.
The six of us had made our own family in that junkyard. I hadn’t lived in a car, instead choosing to build myself a makeshift tent. I’d tried to talk Londyn into a tent or structure too so she’d have more space, but she’d fallen in love with the car.
And with Karson.
He’d lived in this car with her while they’d been together. Londyn hadn’t seen him since we’d moved away from California, but he was the reason she’d set out to take this car to California in the first place.
Karson would always hold a special place in her heart. He’d been her first love. He’d been our friend. He’d always hold a special place in mine too. Londyn had wanted him to have this car and see it restored to its former glory. That, and I think she wanted to know that he was all right.
If delivering the Cadillac to him would make her happy, I’d gladly drive the miles.
And I could use the time to figure out my next move.
Figure out who I wanted to be.
I glanced at myself in the rearview mirror. My chocolate-brown hair was piled in a messy knot on top of my head. I hadn’t bothered with makeup in my hotel room this morning. I looked a far cry from the corporate tycoon I’d been last month.
Gone were the posh and polish. They were somewhere in the miles behind me, strewn across the interstate.
I’d left West Virginia two days ago, heeding Londyn’s advice not to rush the trip. The first day, I’d driven for six hours before stopping in Louisville, Kentucky, for the night. I’d eaten dinner alone, not unusual for me, then went to bed. The next day, I’d crossed into Missouri for a stop in Kansas City. Then this morning, I’d awoken refreshed and ready to hit the road.
So here I was, hours later, in the middle of Kansas on a warm September day.
Flat fields spread like a golden ocean in every direction, only disturbed by the occasional barn or building. The road stretched in an endless line in front of me and rarely did I have to turn the steering wheel. Traffic on the interstate was crowded with semitrucks hauling loads across the country.
As the day wore on, I found myself relaxing to the whir of the tires on the pavement. I studied the landscape and its subtle changes as I approached the border to Colorado. And I breathed.
Truly breathed.
There were no emails to return. No calls to answer. No decisions to make. Benjamin would deal with any emergency that came up. As of now, I was the blissfully silent partner.
Walking away from my life had been relatively easy.
What did that mean? What did it mean that the only person who’d called me since leaving Boston was my paid employee?
Lost in my head, it took me a moment to notice the flash of red and blue lights racing up behind me. When their flicker caught my eye, my heart jumped to my throat and my foot instantly came off the gas. My hands gripped the wheel at ten and two as I glanced at the speedometer.
“Shit. Don’t pull me over. Please, please, please.” The last thing I needed was another speeding ticket.
The police car zoomed into the passing lane and streaked by. The air rushed from my lungs and I watched him disappear down the road ahead.
Thank God. I set the cruise control to exactly the speed limit.
Why did I always speed? When the limit was seventy-five, why did I push it to eighty-nine? When was I going to learn to slow down?
I’d never excelled at going slow or taking my time. I’d always put in twenty times the effort as others because I hadn’t had an Ivy League education or family pedigree to rely on. But give me a dollar and I’d turn it into ten through sheer will and determination. I worked hard and fast, something I’d been doing since running away from home at sixteen.
If you wanted to survive on the streets, you didn’t act slow. I’d figured out quickly how to care for myself. Granted, I’d had help. In the beginning, Karson had been my lifeline.
He and I had lived in the same shitty neighborhood. As kids, he’d walked with me to school and had played with me at the neighborhood park. It was a miracle neither of us had contracted tetanus from the swing set. Whenever I ran from my home crying, I’d often find him at that park, avoiding his own home.
Karson had been my closest friend. The day he hadn’t showed up at school, I’d gone to check on him. When I’d peeked through his window and saw his backpack was missing, I’d known he’d finally had enough.
When I’d hit the same breaking point, I’d sought him out. There hadn’t been a lot of other options. Karson had already made the junkyard his home. Then he’d helped make it mine.
A month later, Londyn came along. I’d found her digging through a Dumpster behind a restaurant, picking off a piece of wilted lettuce from a sandwich and actually opening her mouth to eat the damn thing. I gagged remembering that stench.
I’d ripped that sandwich out of her hand and tossed it back in the trash where it had belonged.
We’d been best friends ever since.
After saving her from the sandwich, I’d hauled her to the junkyard, made her a peanut butter and jelly, and introduced her to Karson. It had taken them three months to finally admit they liked each other. And another three months before Karson began spending his nights in her Cadillac.
A lot had changed since then. Life had split us all apart, though Londyn and I had always stayed friends. We’d both spent years living in Boston, meeting for drinks and manicures on a weekly basis. But Boston hadn’t been right, for either of us.
I was happy she’d found Brooks and a home in West Virginia. Had the others found happiness too? A few years ago—driven by curiosity or nostalgia or both—I’d hired a private investigator to look everyone up. It had taken him a few months since I hadn’t given him much to start with besides names, but he’d found them. Karson had still been in California, Clara in Arizona, and Aria in Oregon.
And Katherine was in Montana, where I’d left her behind.
The sound of my ringing phone startled me and I stretched to grab it from the passenger seat, seeing Londyn’s name on the screen.
“I was just thinking about you,” I answered.
“Good things?”
“I was thinking about how we met.”
“You mean how you saved me from food poisoning and ultimate starvation?”
I laughed. “Yep.”
“Ah, good times.” She giggled. “How’s the trip?”
In the background, I heard her husband, Brooks. “Ask her if the car is running okay.”
“Did you hear him?” she asked.
“Yeah. Tell him it’s running fine.”
“She says there’s a strange knocking sound every few minutes. And if she gives it too much gas at once, the whole car lurches.”
“What?” His voice echoed to my ear. “I just tuned it up. Give me that phone.”
I laughed at the sound of her swatting him away.
“I’m kidding,” she told him. “The car is fine. Now go away so we can talk. Ellie needs her diaper changed. I saved it just for you.”
“Gee, thanks,” he muttered. Through the phone, I recognized the sound of a soft kiss.
Jealousy would be easy if I wasn’t so happy for her.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“I crossed into Colorado about twenty miles ago. I’m hoping to get to Denver tonight. Then maybe tomorrow, I’ll put in a long stretch and see if I can get to Las Vegas.”
Londyn sighed. “There’s no hurry, Gem. Why don’t you stay in Colorado for a week? Explore and relax.”
“Maybe.” Did I even know how to relax?
“When was the last time you took a weekend off?”
“Um . . .” It hadn’t been in recent years. “Montana, I guess.”
“That was—what?—eleven years ago? I’d say you’re overdue,” she said. “So you were thinking about the junkyard days, huh? Why?”
“I don’t know. Reminiscing, I guess. Wondering where do I go after this trip. Things were hard, but life seemed easier back at Lou’s.”
Lou Miley had owned the junkyard where the six of us kids had lived. He’d been a loner and a gruff old man. Unfriendly and irritable. But he’d let us stay without question.
“Are you okay?” Londyn asked. “Should I be worried?”
“No,” I promised. “I was just thinking about how we all scattered. Everyone but Karson. I wonder how everyone is doing.”
“You’re still upset about the Katherine thing, aren’t you?”
“I screwed up.”
Londyn sighed. “You were nineteen years old and jumped at an opportunity to make some money. I highly doubt she holds it against you. Considering where we all came from, Katherine, above all people, couldn’t fault you for wanting to better your life.”
“I don’t know,” I mumbled.
I’d broken a promise to a close friend. I’d ditched her, choosing money over that promise and the decision had haunted me since.
This was a fresh start for me. There was nothing holding me back. Londyn wanted me to take an overdue vacation. Maybe what I really needed before I could concentrate on the future, was to make an overdue apology for a past mistake.
An idea stirred in my mind, calling and demanding some attention. It was like a flashing light, one that would keep blinking until I gave it my focus. This feeling was familiar, and usually, it meant another successful business venture.
But not this time.
This idea had nothing to do with money.
“Would you care if it took me longer than planned to get the Cadillac to Karson?” Because my intuition was screaming at me to take a massive detour.
“Nope,” she said. “It’s your trip. Make the most of it.”
“Okay.” I smiled. “Thanks, Lonny.”
“Of course. Call me soon.”
“Bye.” The moment I ended the call, I pulled up my digital map and punched in a new destination.
These spontaneous decisions of the past few weeks suddenly made sense. They had purpose. They had meaning. They were to get me here, in this moment.
I was setting out to right a wrong. To find myself again.
On the wild highway.
Wild Highway
* * *
CHAPTER 1
Gemma
“I’m sorry, what did you say? Where are you? Kansas? As in Dorothy and Toto? That Kansas?” Benjamin’s string of questions came in his signature style—rapid-fire. “What happened to West Virginia?”
“I was in West Virginia,” I said into the phone. “Now I’m in Kansas.”
“B-but why?”
I didn’t need to see his face to know it was agape with shock. For too long, Benjamin had tracked my every move. He’d stood by my side as I’d created my empire and had executed my directives with precision. The rigidity of my schedule wasn’t just for my benefit. He’d managed it flawlessly for the past six years.
This trip of mine was going to freak him way the hell out.
“I have something important to tell you.”
“No.” He groaned. “I’m still dealing with the mess you left me the last time you had something important to tell me.”
“Sorry.” I hadn’t meant to shake up his world. But since I’d completely torpedoed mine, changes to his were inevitable.
Three weeks ago, I’d called Benjamin into my office and told him that I was no longer the CEO of Gemma Lane. That I’d sold my beloved cosmetics company and namesake to Procter & Gamble. The monster corporation had purchased my brand and skin care formulas for the bargain price of twelve million dollars.
The sale had been a spur-of-the-moment decision. I didn’t make those, not anymore. And ever since, I’d been waiting for a ping of regret. It hadn’t hit me yet.
Instead, I’d felt free.
Selling Gemma Lane had been the first spontaneous decision I’d made in years. The floodgates were open now and these past three weeks had seen countless decisions made entirely with personal motivations.
For eleven years, I’d given every shred of my concentration and energy to my businesses. I’d worked my ass off to make sure I’d never be poor or homeless or hungry again. I’d lived my life with extreme control, shutting out any added emotion that wouldn’t increase my bottom line.
Then I’d just . . . walked away.
All because of a pasta and breadsticks lunch with a former colleague.
I’d gotten a random phone call from my friend Julie. She’d worked with me selling real estate years before and we’d loosely kept in touch over the years. Neither of us had stayed in real estate, and while I’d chosen to create my own company, she’d worked her way up the executive ranks at Procter & Gamble.
We’d met for lunch to celebrate her recent promotion. And she’d asked me, point-blank, if I’d ever sell Gemma Lane. The word yes came from nowhere, shocking us both. We’d negotiated over the meal and Julie had taken my bottom-line number to her superiors.
Five hours later, I had the legal agreement in my inbox.
My life had flown out the window, like a ream of paper being tossed from my fourteenth-floor office on a windy day. Benjamin had been trying to catch the pages and stack them neatly again, except I just kept tossing more.
“I’m taking some time away,” I told him.
“In West Virginia. You’re supposed to be in West Virginia visiting Londyn. Wait, what’s that noise? Are you driving?”
“Yes. About that . . .” My best friend Londyn was the reason I was in this car. “I was in West Virginia visiting Londyn. But remember last year when I told you she was taking her Cadillac and driving it to California?”
“I do. Except she met Brooks in West Virginia and married him. What does this—” Benjamin stopped. He was a brilliant man and normally our conversations went this way—I’d start explaining and he’d jump to the end before I could finish my story. “No. Tell me you’re not taking this car to California yourself.”
“I’m taking the car to California myself.”
“Are you serious? You’re driving from West Virginia to California? Alone?”
“Yes, yes and yes.” I held my breath as the line went silent.
“You really have lost your goddamn mind.”
I laughed. “You’re not wrong.”
“Gemma, what is going on with you?” The concern in his voice tugged at my heart. “Is this a you-turned-thirty-this-year crisis? Should I call Dr. Brewer?”
“No.” I didn’t need my therapist getting involved. Dr. Brewer would dredge up the past, and my childhood was the last thing I wanted to discuss at the moment. “It was just time for a change.”
“A change? This is not a change. This is a nuclear explosion. You sold the company. Your baby. Gemma Lane was your life. You were there from five in the morning until eight at night every single day. Now it’s gone.”
I nodded, waiting for him to continue. This wasn’t the first time he’d reminded me of exactly what I’d done. Yet, I still didn’t feel like I’d made a huge mistake.
“Two weeks ago, you handed me an entirely new list of job duties, including managing all your assets and capital ventures while you disappeared to West Virginia. Now you’re driving to California? This isn’t you.”
“But it used to be,” I said.
I used to be impulsive and adventurous. Money and success were to blame for the caution that had invaded my life. A month ago, I’d had hundreds of employees counting on me to make the right decisions. They’d needed me to take care with my actions to ensure they had jobs. In worrying about them—for hours, days, years—I’d lost myself.
Now those employees would be working for Procter & Gamble. It had been part of my agreement that every one of my employees had future employment. Except for Benjamin. He’d always worked for me personally.
“I need this,” I confessed. “I used to be fun. I used to be daring and reckless. You wouldn’t even recognize that version of me.”
Benjamin had only known the Gemma consumed by work. He didn’t recognize me without the meetings, conference calls and galas. He didn’t see that the charity balls I used to love—the ones where I’d smile as I sipped champagne because Boston’s elite had let a lowly, runaway kid into their midst—were now suffocating and dull.
“Where is this coming from?” Benjamin asked. “I’m not buying this ‘I needed a change’ explanation. Something happened and you haven’t told me.”
Yes, something had happened, and I hadn’t told anyone, not even Londyn. “Remember Jason Jensen?”
“The guy who used to work in marketing?”
“Yes. He asked me to marry him.”
“What?” he shouted, the volume making me wince. “When? How long were you dating? How did I not know about this?”
“We dated for a few months. Obviously, we didn’t tell anyone because I was his boss’s boss. We agreed to keep it quiet, and I didn’t think we were serious. But then one night about a month ago, he took me to this fancy restaurant, got down on one knee and proposed.”
“Oh, Gemma. I’m sorry.” As always, Benjamin jumped to the end of my story.
“Don’t pity me. Pity Jason. He was sweet and handsome and kind. But I just . . . I couldn’t say yes. I didn’t love him.”
So in a restaurant full of people watching, I’d broken a good man’s heart.
“That’s why he quit,” Benjamin said.
“Yeah.”
The day Jason had left, I’d sat in my office alone, giving him space to pack his things and say goodbye to his coworkers. I’d stared out my wall of windows and wished I’d loved him.
He was gracious and caring. Jason hadn’t hated me for turning him down, he just couldn’t work for me any longer. I didn’t fault him for that. He’d loved unselfishly, not complaining that I’d been in the spotlight.
And I’d felt nothing but guilt.
“He just wasn’t the right guy,” Benjamin said. “That doesn’t mean you had to sell your company, your car and your brownstone. You gave up your life.”
“Was it really that good of a life?”
He sighed. “So what now?”
“I’m taking a road trip in this incredible car. Then . . . I don’t know.” Most of my belongings had either been donated to charity or put into storage. My house I’d sold furnished. What I had fit into the trunk of this car, and for today, it was enough.
I’d deal with tomorrow, well . . . tomorrow.
“What can I do?”
I smiled. Maybe Benjamin didn’t understand what I was doing, but he’d support me, nonetheless. “Exactly what you are doing.”
He was managing my assets, paying my bills and dealing with any questions that came up with my other business ventures. It was all work I’d done myself before the sale. It had been the second job I hadn’t needed but something to fill the lonely nights. Work had always been my forte.
Now I’d handed it over to Benjamin.
Since he no longer had to manage my hectic calendar and activities at Gemma Lane, he’d watch over my numerous real estate holdings, acting as the liaison to the property management company I’d hired years ago. Benjamin would step in and be the go-between with my financial managers.
The restaurants that had needed my influx of cash to get up and running were now some of Boston’s finest. They ran on autopilot. I owned an interest in a car dealership, one that peddled foreign luxury as opposed to the classic Americana I was currently driving. And I was also a partner in a fashion design company, the one that had designed the black sweater I was currently wearing along with a handful of others packed in my suitcase.
Benjamin would ensure we received regular profit and loss reports from my investments along with my annual dividends, then alert me to any red flags.
“Okay,” he said. “It will be in good hands until you get back.”
I bit my tongue, because as the open road stretched before me, there was a good chance I wouldn’t be back. I was on a new path now. Where it was going, I wasn’t sure. But the excitement, the freedom, was something I hadn’t felt in a long, long time.
“Call if you need anything. And, Benjamin?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
“Drive safely.”
I tossed my phone aside and put both hands on the white steering wheel.
Londyn’s cherry-red, 1964 Cadillac DeVille convertible was a dream to drive. The car sailed down the interstate, the wheels skimming over the asphalt as the body sliced through the air.
She’d paid a small fortune to restore this car from the rusted heap it had once been. Gone were the torn, flat seats. They’d been replaced with thick cushions covered with buttery, white leather that matched the wheel. The air-conditioning kept the cab from getting too hot, and when I felt like blasting music, the sound system was deafening.
This car’s look was different but the inside would always feel like Londyn’s home. As an old, abandoned wreck destined for the scrap pile, Londyn had chosen this Cadillac as her shelter in a junkyard we’d called home.
The junkyard in Temecula, California, where Londyn, four other kids and I had lived after running away from our respective homes.
The six of us had made our own family in that junkyard. I hadn’t lived in a car, instead choosing to build myself a makeshift tent. I’d tried to talk Londyn into a tent or structure too so she’d have more space, but she’d fallen in love with the car.
And with Karson.
He’d lived in this car with her while they’d been together. Londyn hadn’t seen him since we’d moved away from California, but he was the reason she’d set out to take this car to California in the first place.
Karson would always hold a special place in her heart. He’d been her first love. He’d been our friend. He’d always hold a special place in mine too. Londyn had wanted him to have this car and see it restored to its former glory. That, and I think she wanted to know that he was all right.
If delivering the Cadillac to him would make her happy, I’d gladly drive the miles.
And I could use the time to figure out my next move.
Figure out who I wanted to be.
I glanced at myself in the rearview mirror. My chocolate-brown hair was piled in a messy knot on top of my head. I hadn’t bothered with makeup in my hotel room this morning. I looked a far cry from the corporate tycoon I’d been last month.
Gone were the posh and polish. They were somewhere in the miles behind me, strewn across the interstate.
I’d left West Virginia two days ago, heeding Londyn’s advice not to rush the trip. The first day, I’d driven for six hours before stopping in Louisville, Kentucky, for the night. I’d eaten dinner alone, not unusual for me, then went to bed. The next day, I’d crossed into Missouri for a stop in Kansas City. Then this morning, I’d awoken refreshed and ready to hit the road.
So here I was, hours later, in the middle of Kansas on a warm September day.
Flat fields spread like a golden ocean in every direction, only disturbed by the occasional barn or building. The road stretched in an endless line in front of me and rarely did I have to turn the steering wheel. Traffic on the interstate was crowded with semitrucks hauling loads across the country.
As the day wore on, I found myself relaxing to the whir of the tires on the pavement. I studied the landscape and its subtle changes as I approached the border to Colorado. And I breathed.
Truly breathed.
There were no emails to return. No calls to answer. No decisions to make. Benjamin would deal with any emergency that came up. As of now, I was the blissfully silent partner.
Walking away from my life had been relatively easy.
What did that mean? What did it mean that the only person who’d called me since leaving Boston was my paid employee?
Lost in my head, it took me a moment to notice the flash of red and blue lights racing up behind me. When their flicker caught my eye, my heart jumped to my throat and my foot instantly came off the gas. My hands gripped the wheel at ten and two as I glanced at the speedometer.
“Shit. Don’t pull me over. Please, please, please.” The last thing I needed was another speeding ticket.
The police car zoomed into the passing lane and streaked by. The air rushed from my lungs and I watched him disappear down the road ahead.
Thank God. I set the cruise control to exactly the speed limit.
Why did I always speed? When the limit was seventy-five, why did I push it to eighty-nine? When was I going to learn to slow down?
I’d never excelled at going slow or taking my time. I’d always put in twenty times the effort as others because I hadn’t had an Ivy League education or family pedigree to rely on. But give me a dollar and I’d turn it into ten through sheer will and determination. I worked hard and fast, something I’d been doing since running away from home at sixteen.
If you wanted to survive on the streets, you didn’t act slow. I’d figured out quickly how to care for myself. Granted, I’d had help. In the beginning, Karson had been my lifeline.
He and I had lived in the same shitty neighborhood. As kids, he’d walked with me to school and had played with me at the neighborhood park. It was a miracle neither of us had contracted tetanus from the swing set. Whenever I ran from my home crying, I’d often find him at that park, avoiding his own home.
Karson had been my closest friend. The day he hadn’t showed up at school, I’d gone to check on him. When I’d peeked through his window and saw his backpack was missing, I’d known he’d finally had enough.
When I’d hit the same breaking point, I’d sought him out. There hadn’t been a lot of other options. Karson had already made the junkyard his home. Then he’d helped make it mine.
A month later, Londyn came along. I’d found her digging through a Dumpster behind a restaurant, picking off a piece of wilted lettuce from a sandwich and actually opening her mouth to eat the damn thing. I gagged remembering that stench.
I’d ripped that sandwich out of her hand and tossed it back in the trash where it had belonged.
We’d been best friends ever since.
After saving her from the sandwich, I’d hauled her to the junkyard, made her a peanut butter and jelly, and introduced her to Karson. It had taken them three months to finally admit they liked each other. And another three months before Karson began spending his nights in her Cadillac.
A lot had changed since then. Life had split us all apart, though Londyn and I had always stayed friends. We’d both spent years living in Boston, meeting for drinks and manicures on a weekly basis. But Boston hadn’t been right, for either of us.
I was happy she’d found Brooks and a home in West Virginia. Had the others found happiness too? A few years ago—driven by curiosity or nostalgia or both—I’d hired a private investigator to look everyone up. It had taken him a few months since I hadn’t given him much to start with besides names, but he’d found them. Karson had still been in California, Clara in Arizona, and Aria in Oregon.
And Katherine was in Montana, where I’d left her behind.
The sound of my ringing phone startled me and I stretched to grab it from the passenger seat, seeing Londyn’s name on the screen.
“I was just thinking about you,” I answered.
“Good things?”
“I was thinking about how we met.”
“You mean how you saved me from food poisoning and ultimate starvation?”
I laughed. “Yep.”
“Ah, good times.” She giggled. “How’s the trip?”
In the background, I heard her husband, Brooks. “Ask her if the car is running okay.”
“Did you hear him?” she asked.
“Yeah. Tell him it’s running fine.”
“She says there’s a strange knocking sound every few minutes. And if she gives it too much gas at once, the whole car lurches.”
“What?” His voice echoed to my ear. “I just tuned it up. Give me that phone.”
I laughed at the sound of her swatting him away.
“I’m kidding,” she told him. “The car is fine. Now go away so we can talk. Ellie needs her diaper changed. I saved it just for you.”
“Gee, thanks,” he muttered. Through the phone, I recognized the sound of a soft kiss.
Jealousy would be easy if I wasn’t so happy for her.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“I crossed into Colorado about twenty miles ago. I’m hoping to get to Denver tonight. Then maybe tomorrow, I’ll put in a long stretch and see if I can get to Las Vegas.”
Londyn sighed. “There’s no hurry, Gem. Why don’t you stay in Colorado for a week? Explore and relax.”
“Maybe.” Did I even know how to relax?
“When was the last time you took a weekend off?”
“Um . . .” It hadn’t been in recent years. “Montana, I guess.”
“That was—what?—eleven years ago? I’d say you’re overdue,” she said. “So you were thinking about the junkyard days, huh? Why?”
“I don’t know. Reminiscing, I guess. Wondering where do I go after this trip. Things were hard, but life seemed easier back at Lou’s.”
Lou Miley had owned the junkyard where the six of us kids had lived. He’d been a loner and a gruff old man. Unfriendly and irritable. But he’d let us stay without question.
“Are you okay?” Londyn asked. “Should I be worried?”
“No,” I promised. “I was just thinking about how we all scattered. Everyone but Karson. I wonder how everyone is doing.”
“You’re still upset about the Katherine thing, aren’t you?”
“I screwed up.”
Londyn sighed. “You were nineteen years old and jumped at an opportunity to make some money. I highly doubt she holds it against you. Considering where we all came from, Katherine, above all people, couldn’t fault you for wanting to better your life.”
“I don’t know,” I mumbled.
I’d broken a promise to a close friend. I’d ditched her, choosing money over that promise and the decision had haunted me since.
This was a fresh start for me. There was nothing holding me back. Londyn wanted me to take an overdue vacation. Maybe what I really needed before I could concentrate on the future, was to make an overdue apology for a past mistake.
An idea stirred in my mind, calling and demanding some attention. It was like a flashing light, one that would keep blinking until I gave it my focus. This feeling was familiar, and usually, it meant another successful business venture.
But not this time.
This idea had nothing to do with money.
“Would you care if it took me longer than planned to get the Cadillac to Karson?” Because my intuition was screaming at me to take a massive detour.
“Nope,” she said. “It’s your trip. Make the most of it.”
“Okay.” I smiled. “Thanks, Lonny.”
“Of course. Call me soon.”
“Bye.” The moment I ended the call, I pulled up my digital map and punched in a new destination.
These spontaneous decisions of the past few weeks suddenly made sense. They had purpose. They had meaning. They were to get me here, in this moment.
I was setting out to right a wrong. To find myself again.
On the wild highway.
January 23, 2020
EXCERPT: Riven Knight
Riven Knight is the second story in the Tin Gypsy series. Here's a special excerpt to enjoy!
***
CHAPTER 1
Genevieve
“I’m disappointed.”
I’d take a slap across the face any day over that statement. It was especially sharp and painful today of all days, coming from Mr. Reggie Barker, a man I’d considered a mentor and professional hero.
“I’m sorry, Reggie.”
My boss—former boss—sighed on the other end of the phone. “Given the way you chose to leave the firm, I’m unable to give you a reference.”
I winced. “Oh, um . . . okay.”
Reggie felt that giving one week’s notice instead of two was a snub. It didn’t matter that I’d worked as his paralegal for the past four years, that I was the first person to arrive at the firm each morning and the last to leave each night. It didn’t matter that, while paralegals in the firm could study for their LSAT exams during work hours, I’d saved all my studies for home, ensuring every minute of my workday was dedicated to helping Reggie.
I’d pushed taking the exam four times because he’d cautioned me to be ready—stated in a way he didn’t think I was.
I’d trusted him. I’d valued his opinion above all others at the firm. I’d given him all that I’d had to give, and apparently, it wasn’t enough.
I was disappointed too.
I’d only called this morning because I’d forgotten to leave my office key behind. Now I wished I’d simply mailed it with a note.
“Best of luck, Genevieve.”
“Thank—”
He hung up the phone before I could finish. Twenty-seven was already shaping up to be a disaster.
Happy birthday to me.
I set my phone aside and stared through the windshield at the store ahead. I was parked in front of a small clothing shop on Central Avenue. It was the only store in Clifton Forge, Montana, that sold women’s clothing besides the farm-and-ranch-supply warehouse.
Clifton Forge.
My mom had gone to high school here. My grandparents, two people I’d never known, had been killed in a car accident and were buried here. Six weeks ago, the town of Clifton Forge was nothing more than a footnote in my family’s history.
Then Mom came for a visit and was viciously slaughtered at the local motel.
Now Clifton Forge wasn’t only a black spot on the past, it was also my home for the foreseeable future.
I longed to be at home in Denver, driving on familiar streets to familiar places. The allure of the highway had a strong pull. On the drive from Colorado, I’d been tempted more than once to turn around and never look back. To run and hide.
Except I’d made a promise to a perfect stranger, a man I’d known only hours. I wouldn’t break my word.
Not after what Isaiah had done for me.
So here I was, in Clifton Forge.
For months. Years. Decades. For as long as it takes. I owed Isaiah that time.
The queasy feeling I’d had for days surged, the bile rising in my throat. I swallowed it down, not wanting to think about a lifetime condemned to Montana. I didn’t have time to dwell on the possibilities—the consequences—of what was about to happen. I was supposed to meet Isaiah at noon, which only gave me two hours to get ready. So I steeled my spine, pushed the nerves away and got out of the car to do some shopping.
I refused to wear jeans today.
In the past week, I’d packed up everything in my condo in Denver, much like I’d done with my mother’s home, though this time not quite as soul shattering. Still, it had hurt and I’d cried every time I’d taped a box shut. All this change, all this loss—I was drowning.
Most of my larger belongings had gone into storage. Some had been packed to ship. And the rest had been crammed into my gray, four-door Toyota Camry, which I’d driven from Colorado to Montana yesterday.
Too frazzled, trying to pack and finish up my last week at work, I hadn’t thought to pack a dress. Maybe it was my subconscious protesting today’s nuptials.
But, like it or not, this wedding was happening, and I was not wearing jeans.
Especially on my birthday.
I’d taken extra care with my makeup this morning. I’d washed and styled my thick, brown hair using the expensive curling wand Mom had bought me last year.
It was the last birthday gift she’d ever give me.
My God, I missed her. She wouldn’t be here today to stand by my side as I made arguably the biggest mistake of my life. She wouldn’t be here for any more birthdays, because a vile and vicious human had snuffed out her life. It wasn’t fair.
Mom had been murdered, stabbed seven times, left to bleed out in a motel room alone. She’d died, leaving behind a trail of secrets and lies that were ruining her beautiful memory.
Why? I wanted to scream it to the heavens until she answered.
Why?
I was so angry at her. I was furious she hadn’t trusted me with the truth. That she hadn’t told me about my father. That I was here in this shitty little town because of her bad choices.
But damn it, I missed her. Today of all days, I wanted my mom.
Tears welled behind my sunglasses and I blinked them away before walking into the clothing store. I put on the fake smile I’d been wearing for weeks.
“Good morning,” the clerk greeted as the bell chimed over my head. “Please feel free to look around. Is there something in particular you’re looking for?”
“Actually, yes. I need a dress and heels.”
The heels would hurt. The soles of my feet were wrecked from running through the mountains with bare feet, but I’d suffer through it today.
“Oooh. I might have just the thing.” She came from around the counter where she’d been folding a sweater. “We just got this deep-green dress in yesterday. I’m obsessed with it. And it will go beautifully with your hair.”
“Perfect.”
Just as long as it isn’t white.
Thirty minutes later, I was home—a term I used loosely—because my temporary residence, this shitty apartment located above a shitty garage in a shitty town, was definitely no home. I pulled on my new sleeveless green wrap dress, adjusting the deep V-neck so not too much cleavage was showing. Then I stood on my tiptoes in the bathroom, trying to see myself in the mirror. Whoever had furnished this place didn’t seem to care what they looked like from the waist down.
I strapped on the nude heels I’d bought today too, wishing I’d had time for a pedicure. Was there even a place for pedicures in Clifton Forge? Instead, I rifled through my purse for the bottle of hot pink polish I’d tossed in there weeks ago for emergency touch-ups. I applied another coat and let it dry. There were so many layers now, it would take a jackhammer to chip it all off.
I fluffed my hair once more and swiped on a fresh coat of lip color. Noise from the Clifton Forge Garage carried up from the floor. The clang of metal on metal. The hum of a compressor. The muffled voices of men working.
Crossing the studio apartment, I stepped up to the only window that overlooked the parking lot below. A row of gleaming black motorcycles was parked against the edge of the property, lined up and equally spaced against a chain-link fence.
My half brother owned one of those bikes.
So did my father.
He was Mom’s biggest secret, one I’d only learned about because of her death. Would she have told me about him eventually? I guess it didn’t make a difference now. Except for a few times as a kid and then a bratty teenager, I hadn’t asked about him. I hadn’t needed a father when I’d had her as a mother.
She was everything I’d needed and more. And now she was gone, leaving me to deal with this family of strangers. What other secrets would I uncover in Clifton Forge? They seemed to be seeping from the boards of her coffin.
A man walked out from the garage, striding to a black bike that didn’t gleam like the others. It was the only motorcycle in the row I’d ridden.
Isaiah. A name that had been haunting my thoughts for days.
His stride was long and confident. He had a grace about his steps, an ease in the way those strong thighs lifted and his narrow hips rolled. But then came the thud, a heaviness each time his boot hit pavement.
It sounded a lot like dread.
I could sympathize.
He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes landing on my car parked by the stairs leading to the apartment. He stared at it for a long moment, then turned his gaze to the window.
I didn’t bother trying to hide. If he could see me past the dirt and water spots, it didn’t make a difference. Soon, there’d be no escaping his gaze.
It was impossible to see the color of his eyes from this distance, but like his name, they’d been a constant part of my dreams. And nightmares.
Green and brown and gold. Most would classify them as hazel and move along to his other mouth-watering qualities—the long legs, rock-hard stomach, chiseled arms decorated with tattoos and an ass that didn’t quit. But those eyes, they were exquisite.
The spiral of colors was ringed with a bold circle of dark chocolate. And though the pattern was intriguing, what made them so heartbreaking were the demons beneath.
There was no sparkle. No light. They were empty.
From his time in prison? Or from something more?
Isaiah gave me a single nod, then went to his bike, straddling the machine as it rumbled to life. It was time to go.
My heart jumped into my throat. I’m going to be sick. I swallowed down the wash of saliva in my mouth and breathed through my nose, because there wasn’t time to puke. It was almost noon.
I pulled myself away from the window and returned to the bathroom, tidying up the few things I’d left on the counter. While the rest of the studio was wide open, the bathroom had a door, which was good since I’d be sharing this space tonight.
Then with all my things put away in a travel case, I risked one long look in the mirror.
I looked pretty today, a fancier version of my normal self. In a way, I looked like Mom.
Damn it, Mom. Damn you for not being here. For making me do this alone.
I sucked in a breath, not allowing the threat of tears to ruin my mascara. I shoved those feelings deep, to a dark place where they’d stay until I could afford the breakdown needed. Now was not that time, no matter how fucked my life had become.
First, there was my job. By quitting, I’d killed my dream to one day become a lawyer and work alongside the great Reggie Barker. Did Clifton Forge even have lawyers? If so, I doubted any specialized in pro bono work for abused women. There certainly wasn’t a law school nearby. Which meant if I did find a job, I’d be stuck as a paralegal.
Goodbye, dream job.
Next, there was my condo, the one I’d picked out meticulously. The one I’d drained my savings account to buy. The one I’d been slowly decorating, taking care and patience to pick things that were perfect, not just things that filled empty spaces.
Goodbye, home.
It was agony to think of selling my condo, especially while I was stuck in a studio apartment, and not the swanky kind. No, this was the bachelor kind with white, cracked walls and old tan carpet.
Goodbye, life.
I trudged out of the bathroom, grabbed my purse and headed for the door. My heels clopped down the metal stairs as I gripped the handrail to keep my balance. When my shoes hit pavement, I hustled for the car, not risking a glance at the garage.
I’d been avoiding my half brother, Dash, and his girlfriend, Bryce, since I’d arrived yesterday. They had questions about what I was doing here. Why I was living in Isaiah’s apartment. How long I was staying.
I had answers but wasn’t ready to give them yet.
When I pulled out of the parking lot undetected, I breathed a long sigh, then followed my phone’s navigation toward downtown Clifton Forge.
I passed a wide river along the way. It meandered along the edge of town, bordered by trees that swayed in the breeze. The sun gleamed off its flowing currents. The mountains stood proud and blue in the distance. It was . . . picturesque.
Maybe I’d been a bit harsh in my judgment of Clifton Forge. It actually had the same country, quiet feel as some of the rural areas in Colorado, places Mom had taken me for weekend getaways. The garage wasn’t all that shitty either but fancy, like the garages you saw on car-resurrection shows.
Maybe, in time, I’d get to know the town and its people and not feel like a prisoner.
Today was not that day.
Today was day one of my sentence.
The closer I got to my destination, the faster my heart raced. Parking in one of the few open spaces in front of the Clifton Forge courthouse, I dug through my console for a handful of change to slot into the meter. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d used change instead of my credit card to pay for parking.
With it maxed out at two hours—I really hoped this didn’t take that long—I walked up the stairs that led to the red brick building. When I reached the door, my eyes caught sight of a familiar form waiting, and I stuttered a step.
“Hey.” Isaiah pushed off the wall.
“Hi,” I breathed, wiping my sweaty palms on my dress.
He was in a black button-up shirt and a pair of jeans, the same as he’d been in at the garage. They were clean jeans, a bit faded, and they fit him nicely. Still, they were jeans. I wasn’t sure why that bothered me. Maybe I should have just worn jeans too.
“What?” He glanced at himself.
I snapped my eyes away from those long legs, waving it off. “Nothing.”
“You look nice.” He ran a hand over his short brown hair, avoiding my eyes.
“Thanks. So do you.”
His black shirt was buttoned down to his wrists, covering the tattoos on his forearms. The one that ran behind his ear trailed down his neck before it disappeared under his collar. I wasn’t sure if he had any on his back, legs or chest, but each of his fingers had a different design. Ten small tattoos made of lines and dots, all situated across his knuckles.
“Ready?” I asked.
He nodded. “Are you sure about this?”
“We don’t have a choice.”
“No. I guess we don’t.”
Isaiah opened the door for me, but inside, he took the lead, guiding us through the courthouse hallways by the wooden signs hung on the walls. The floors had been freshly polished and the overwhelming smell of lemon filled my nose. We disappeared down a series of turns until we reached the door emblazoned with Clerk of the District Court. Underneath was a judge’s name. Below that was Justice of the Peace.
We were here. We were really doing this. I was marrying a stranger today. I was marrying the man who’d saved my life.
It was my turn to return the favor and save his.
Isaiah greeted the clerk at the front desk, speaking for us both because I’d forgotten how to work my tongue. I stood by his side, frozen and dazed, waiting as he filled out the marriage license application. When it was my turn, my hand shook as I filled in the blanks.
“Do you have your IDs?” the clerk asked. She took them both along with the application, then pointed to the row of chairs behind us. “You can have a seat.”
I clenched the arms of the chair as I sat, taking a few long breaths to stop my head from spinning. This was not how I’d imagined getting married. This was not special. I was in a green dress because I didn’t want to wear white when this marriage was a farce. I didn’t know my fiancé’s middle name or how he liked to be kissed. I didn’t know if he drank coffee or what side of the bed he slept on.
My mom wasn’t here to walk me down the aisle.
Blood pumped loud in my ears and the hammering in my chest hurt like crazy. I’d never had an anxiety attack before. Was that what this was? I’d gotten kidnapped just over a week ago and hadn’t flipped out then. If I could survive that experience, then this was a piece of cake.
It’s temporary. It’s only temporary. Eventually, we’d get a divorce and I’d be free to move home to Colorado. A few years here and then I’d get my life back. I could do this for Isaiah.
“We don’t have to do this,” he whispered.
“We do,” I insisted, finding the same determination I’d had when I’d suggested marriage in the first place. “We do.”
“Genevieve . . .” My name sounded so smooth in his deep voice. Each syllable was evenly spaced. He didn’t rush through it like a lot of people did.
I looked up at him, meeting that gorgeous gaze, and my heart softened. Isaiah was a nice man. A good man. He didn’t deserve to suffer because of my mother’s mistakes. “We’re doing this.”
“Isaiah and Genevieve?” The clerk waved us up, sliding a marriage license across the counter. “You’re all set. Just go right through there.”
We followed her finger through a door to our left, finding a man shuffling some papers on his oak desk. His glasses were perched low on his nose. His head was bald except for the ring of gray hair that ran from ear to ear.
“The future Mr. and Mrs.”—he scanned a paper on the desk—“Reynolds.”
Mrs. Reynolds. I gulped, then forced a smile. We were supposed to be in love—a couple who’d met and fallen in love on the same day—so I slipped my hand into Isaiah’s, tensing as the heat and callouses from his palm hit mine.
He didn’t flinch but his frame tightened.
“Shall we?” The judge motioned us to the middle of the room. We stood in front of him as he took up his position and gave us both a kind smile. If he could sense our fear, he didn’t comment.
“Do you have rings?”
Panic hit hard. In everything I’d done this past week, I hadn’t thought to get rings. “I, uh—”
“Here.” Isaiah fished two rings out of his jeans pocket. One was a simple band. Not gold or silver but a dark gray, like titanium. And the other was a thin platinum band with a halo of small diamonds in the center.
My mouth fell open.
“It’s not much.” Isaiah swallowed, embarrassment coloring his cheeks.
“It’s beautiful.” I squeezed his hand, then took the ring. Beautiful was the truth. The diamonds weren’t huge, but I didn’t need huge. He’d already done enough. “Thank you.”
“Excellent.” The judge smiled. “Isaiah, Genevieve, please join hands.”
We did, facing one another. Direct eye contact was fleeting at best. Mostly, I focused on Isaiah’s nose and its wide bridge. It was an admirable nose, strong and straight, set perfectly between those haunted eyes.
“By joining hands, you are consenting to be bound together. Husband and wife. You are promising to honor, love and support each other. Do you, Isaiah, take Genevieve as your wife?”
His eyes found mine. “I do.”
“Do you, Genevieve, take Isaiah as your husband?”
“I do.”
Two words and it was done. I was married.
“Then by the authority vested in me by the great state of Montana, I pronounce you husband and wife. I wish you the best of luck in your marriage, Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds.”
Marriage.
It was done.
Isaiah was safe. No one in the world could make me tell them what had happened at that cabin in the mountains. Because now, I was his wife.
I turned to the justice, ready to say thank you, then make my escape. But he opened his mouth for one last statement that made all the color drain from Isaiah’s face.
“Isaiah, you may now kiss your bride.”
***
CHAPTER 2
Isaiah
The last woman I’d kissed was the woman I’d killed.
Not exactly the thought a groom wants flashing through his mind as he’s standing across from his bride.
Genevieve looked about as terrified of this kiss as I did. Her eyes were wide and full of apprehension. Her lips were pressed into a firm line. No entry. Got it.
Fuck. The judge was waiting. Genevieve wasn’t making a move and I just wanted to get this over with.
I dropped my mouth to hers, closing my eyes on the way. It wasn’t . . . horrible. Genevieve didn’t have on sticky gloss. Her lips were soft and full. I held there, pretending to be her loving husband for ten seconds. Was that enough?
It was going to have to be. I pulled away and dropped my eyes to the floor. Guilt gnawed at my insides. I hadn’t eaten in two days. I hadn’t slept in three. Everything about this situation was wrong, but what the hell was I supposed to do? Genevieve thought this would work and that this marriage could keep me out of prison.
And I’d die before spending another day in a cell.
“Thank you,” Genevieve told the justice of the peace. We were still holding hands. She squeezed mine tight, forcing my gaze up, then practically dragged me out of the room. The clerk at the front desk was all smiles as she tossed out congratulations.
I grunted. Genevieve nodded.
We walked in silence, our hands linked loosely, until we got outside, then she dropped my hand like a hot plate and we both took a step apart.
“So, um”—she touched her lips—“that’s done.”
“Yeah.” Done.
We were married.
What the fuck are we doing? If this blew up, it wouldn’t only be bad for me, it could ruin her life. The corner of our marriage license poked out of her purse. Doubts or not, there was no turning back.
“I’m going to head back to work.”
“Okay. Good idea. I guess I’ll just . . .” She blinked a couple of times, then shook her head, walking down the stairs toward the street where she’d parked.
My bike was five spaces ahead of hers. I waited long enough to make sure she was in her car, then hustled to my bike and got the hell away from the courthouse.
I knew Genevieve would head for Central. It was the fastest way across town and to the garage. I took the side streets, needing some separation—from my wife—to get my head on right.
Why were my lips still burning? No matter how many times I wiped them, the feel of hers remained. Maybe because I hadn’t kissed anyone in a long time.
Six years, one month, two weeks and four days, to be exact. Memorial Day. That was the last time I’d kissed a woman. I’d planned to marry Shannon, but then . . .
Thinking about her was painful. Each beat of my heart pricked. My lungs burned. I’d married Genevieve when my soul was held captive by a ghost.
Genevieve and Shannon were like night and day. Shannon had been a happy, softly spoken person, her voice a chime and her face set in a perpetual smile. Genevieve had a husky, resonating voice. Even her whisper was bold. Her dark hair and dark eyes didn’t blend with the sunshine or float on the breeze. Genevieve was a force, one who had changed my life forever.
The metal band on my ring finger bit into my palm as I gripped the handlebars. It was cheap metal, the only thing I could afford after buying Genevieve’s ring.
She’d saved my life today, and for that, she deserved much more than the chip I’d slid onto her finger. But she’d seemed to like it. She’d stared at the halo of diamonds in awe.
Genevieve spoke with her beautiful eyes. Every emotion, every feeling, flashed in her rich, coffee-colored gaze.
I’d do right by her. I’d be respectful and honest. Fake marriage or not, I wasn’t a guy who strayed. I’d do my best to make this easy for her.
And I wouldn’t fail Genevieve—not like I’d failed Shannon.
The garage came into view and my stomach knotted.
I’d come to care about the people at the garage. They were my coworkers, maybe even my friends. They’d given a fucked-up ex-con a chance to build a new life in a new town. I might not have been forthcoming about my past with them, but I had been honest.
Starting today, I’d look them in the eye and tell them lie after lie.
But it was the only choice. After everything that had happened on that mountain, in that cabin, Genevieve and I had to lie.
The day of the mountain, after taking Genevieve to the airport in Bozeman so she could fly to Colorado and pack up her stuff, I’d returned to Clifton Forge and been assaulted with questions. My boss, Dash, asked questions. His girlfriend, Bryce, who’d been kidnapped with Genevieve, asked questions. Draven, Emmett, Leo—they all asked questions.
I had no truths to give.
So I left town without a word, hiding in Bozeman at my mom’s house for a week, until Genevieve was due to arrive in Montana. It would be easier to lie with her here, wouldn’t it?
Dash was pissed that I’d ditched work. I was lucky he hadn’t fired me on the spot. Because, damn it, I needed this job. I liked this job, and there were few things I genuinely liked these days. I didn’t deserve his grace, but I’d take it.
That was only yesterday.
The blur of the past week made my head spin.
Ever since Genevieve Daylee had entered my life, the order and simplicity I craved and found had vanished.
I parked at the garage and walked toward the open bay doors. The shop was bright and spacious. The tools were a dream. Maybe one day Dash would let me move beyond oil changes and tune-ups so I could work on the custom rebuilds that this garage was becoming famous for.
“Hey, Isaiah.” Bryce waved from a chair beside a truck. Dash was under the raised hood. “We just saw Genevieve head up to your apartment.”
“Yeah.” I glanced over my shoulder to where Genevieve’s gray Toyota was parked in a spot beside the office, one of three spaces near the stairs to the apartment above.
“She’s living with you?”
“Uh . . . yeah.”
Damn it. Genevieve and I should have talked about this. Were we telling people we’d gotten married? Should we keep it a secret for a while? Eventually we’d have to share, but I didn’t trust myself to deliver the news today and not fuck it up. They had to believe we were in love. There was no way I could sell love at first sight right now.
If I kept quiet, then maybe the questions would stop. That had worked for me in prison. I hadn’t talked unless absolutely necessary. It had been the best way to make sure I didn’t say something stupid and get my ass kicked for nothing.
Dash stood from under the hood with a socket wrench in his hand. “Hey.”
“Hey. Thanks for the break,” I told him, avoiding Bryce’s narrowing gaze.
She was a reporter, and a damn smart woman at that. She was likely sniffing out the unspoken lies at the moment, but there was no way I’d talk. She could glare at me all she wanted, fire question after question. I’d spent three years in prison shutting people out. Bryce didn’t stand a chance.
“What would you like me to work on?” I asked Dash.
He jerked his thumb at the truck. “Finish up this oil change if you want.”
“Sure thing.”
I walked over to the tool bench, glancing down at my jeans. They were the nicest pair I owned and the only ones without grease stains. I’d bought them in Bozeman specifically for today because I hadn’t wanted to get married in dirty jeans.
Genevieve had taken me in from head to toe at the courthouse, and though she’d said I looked nice, I realized jeans had been a mistake. I’d felt like trash standing next to her, this stunning woman in a green dress.
She deserved better than jeans. Genevieve deserved better than me. But selfish bastard that I was, I’d let her hitch her wagon to mine.
I was probably going to crash us both.
“You good?” Dash came up to my side and clapped a hand on my shoulder.
“Yeah, man. I’m good.”
How would he react to the news that I wasn’t just his employee now, but his brother-in-law? Or half brother-in-law? This family dynamic was weird.
I wasn’t sure what was going on with the Slater family. I’d only moved to Clifton Forge this summer to take a mechanic job at the garage. I’d been desperate to get away from Bozeman, where memories haunted every road.
A guy who’d been inside with me had connected me with Draven, Dash’s father. He’d interviewed and hired me, though I officially reported to Dash. The pay hadn’t been much at first, but it must have been probationary, because they’d quickly bumped up my hourly wage. That, and when my landlord had screwed me over, Dash had given me the apartment above the garage rent-free.
Had moving here been the right choice? If I’d stayed in Bozeman, I wouldn’t have gotten married today. I wouldn’t have gotten mixed up in a fucking kidnapping. I wouldn’t have tangled my life with a former motorcycle gang.
The Tin Gypsies had closed their clubhouse doors, but that hadn’t kept trouble away, had it?
Six weeks ago, Genevieve’s mother, Amina, had been murdered at the local motel. She’d been brutally stabbed to death. Draven, the first person I’d met in Clifton Forge and a man who I’d deemed decent, had been pinned for the crime.
Draven had been the president of the Tin Gypsies until he’d passed the title to Dash. They didn’t wear their patches or leather vests any longer, but the targets remained on their backs.
I didn’t know all the details about the club—didn’t want to. Dash and Draven kept quiet about it. So did Emmett and Leo, two of the other mechanics who worked at the garage and had been part of the club.
They’d all sheltered me from the details, but I’d picked up on a few things. Mostly, that Draven was innocent. He was being framed for Amina’s death. I’d stayed out of it until Bryce had been kidnapped.
Everything changed that day.
I’d gone with Dash and the guys to rescue her. I liked Bryce and I’d wanted to help. We’d found her in the mountains, frozen and scared. That’s where I’d found Genevieve too.
In the middle of a hell that had already broken loose.
Genevieve and I needed to get our stories straight. We had to work out what lies we were telling and what truths we’d use to fill in the gaps. I didn’t have the energy to hash it out today.
For now, I needed the reliability of work.
As I pulled on some coveralls to save my jeans, Dash put his tools away in a drawer. When they were stowed, he gave me a nod. “Glad you’re back.”
“Appreciate the second chance.”
He shrugged. “Around here, we believe in second chances. Third and fourth, actually. Just ask Leo how many times Dad has fired him over the years.”
“I won’t let you down again,” I promised.
“Good.” Dash nodded, then disappeared into the office with Bryce.
I opened a drawer on the workbench and the ring on my hand caught the overhead florescent light. Shit. I checked over both shoulders to make sure the other guys weren’t close, then I slipped the ring off and into my pocket where it would stay. At least I had an excuse as to why I wouldn’t wear it. Rings at work were a good way for mechanics to lose fingers.
How had this happened? I’d come to work one day, gone on a motorcycle chase to rescue my boss’s girlfriend and now had a wife.
Mom always said trouble found me no matter where I went.
I grabbed a handful of tools and got started on the oil change. I hadn’t been a mechanic for long, but I was a fast learner and auto mechanics came naturally. Gears fit with other gears. Bolts threaded through nuts. A screw tightened with a turn to the right and loosened with a turn to the left. I soaked in the simplicity that one part was designed for another and blocked out the chaos of my life.
I spent the rest of the day on oil changes and one bumper-to-bumper inspection. Even after Dash and Bryce went home, followed soon by Emmett and Leo, I kept working.
The last place I wanted to go was upstairs where Genevieve waited.
“Isaiah? Are you still here?”
I turned from the shop sink as Presley’s voice carried through the garage. “Yeah.”
“Okay. Want me to lock up?”
“Nah. I got it.” I shook my hands dry.
Presley left the doorway to the office and walked deeper into the shop. Her hair was like snow, cut short at the sides and swooped long on top. She tucked her hands in her overalls as she approached, the denim baggy around her small frame. Emmett always teased that she was no bigger than a fairy princess.
“I know I said it this morning, but I’m glad you’re back.”
“Me too. How are things?”
“Good.” She shrugged. “I’m just going home for the day. You should too.”
I’d drag myself upstairs soon enough. “Yeah.”
Presley had to know Genevieve was in the apartment, but she didn’t ask. She was the one person at the garage who didn’t have questions. Maybe because she knew I wouldn’t talk.
The two of us had formed a fast friendship. She hadn’t been part of the Tin Gypsy world either, something that had paired us together as outsiders. We fit in the garage family, but while the others whispered about secrets, Presley and I bonded over coffee in the office.
She didn’t ask me about prison. She didn’t ask me about my past. When we talked, it was mostly about her or life in Clifton Forge. She told me the best place in town to get a cheeseburger and where to go for haircuts. Presley had been my sounding board when my landlord had jacked up my rent.
“How’s it coming along upstairs? Did you get it all cleaned out?” she asked.
I nodded. “For the most part. Needs paint and some updates, but I want to run those by Dash before I go making major changes.”
When I’d moved to town, I’d rented an apartment not far from here. The landlord hadn’t liked my record—no one did, including me. Still, he’d let me rent a place on a month-to-month lease. Not two weeks later, right about the time Dash had given me a raise, he’d come over to tell me he was doubling my rent.
Maybe it was because I was an ex-con and he knew I wouldn’t find another place to live. Presley’s theory was he’d learned I was working at the garage and knew Dash paid his mechanics a fair wage.
She was a good one to have in your corner.
Pres had gone to Dash, unasked by me, and talked to him about letting me move into the upstairs apartment. All it had cost me was some time cleaning it up.
Even after hours of scrubbing the walls and shampooing the carpet, it wasn’t good enough for Genevieve. It was an apartment made for a bachelor, not a classy, poised woman who walked into a room and captured everyone’s attention.
“Is everything all right?” Presley asked. “I know you and Genevieve are keeping to yourselves right now and that’s fine. You don’t have to tell me details. I’m not trying to butt into your love life. But . . . are you good?”
“Yeah,” I answered honestly. Thanks to Genevieve. She might be out of her mind with this marriage idea, but if it worked, I’d be more than good. I’d be free. “Thanks, Pres.”
“Anytime. See you tomorrow?”
I nodded. “Tomorrow.”
Presley left through the office as I shut down everything in the shop, turning off the rows of florescent lights and closing each of the large bay doors. I locked up the side door, loitered on the asphalt for a long minute and, when I couldn’t avoid it any longer, forced my feet up the black, iron staircase that led to my apartment.
I paused at the doorknob. Should I knock? I lived here. My bed, my belongings were all inside. But with Genevieve having moved in yesterday, it didn’t feel like my home anymore.
My knuckles tapped on the door before I pushed it open.
Genevieve was on the couch, sitting cross-legged with her laptop balanced on her thighs. Her back stiffened as I entered. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I shut the door behind me and went to the kitchen to my left, grabbing a pop from the fridge. “Working on something?”
“Trying to find a job.”
“Hmm.” The can hissed as I popped it open. I chugged three gulps, letting the fizz and sugar slide down my throat.
Genevieve closed her laptop and set it aside. Her dark hair was piled on top of her head, the waves from earlier in the day trapped in a white ribbon. The dress was gone. She’d traded it for a pair of maroon leggings and a T-shirt that dipped over one shoulder, showcasing her collarbone.
Just that little sliver of skin and my heart galloped. My fingers itched to graze her smooth, creamy skin. I took another drink of Coke, shoving my reaction to Genevieve’s beauty away.
The urge to touch her was simply physical. Today’s kiss had stirred up some pent-up sexual frustration that had been absent for years. After a few days, it would be buried again and forgotten. I’d learn how to live with this gorgeous woman who was far too beautiful to be in this dingy room, even in her loungewear.
Her outfit was hot, but not as sexy as the green dress from the courthouse.
“We didn’t get a picture,” I muttered.
“Huh?”
I went to the couch, sitting as far away from her as the piece would allow. “A picture. We didn’t get one today. Do you think that’ll be suspicious? People are going to expect a picture from the wedding, right?”
“Oh.” Her shoulders fell. “I didn’t think of that either. Maybe we could say we’re getting them done later or something.”
“Yeah.”
An awkward quiet hovered over the couch. It was the same silence that we’d endured yesterday after moving her boxes and suitcases in from her car. I’d stuck it out for a few hours, but it had become uncomfortable, so I’d excused myself for the night and rented a room at the motel.
“So.” I drew out the word.
“So.”
How were we supposed to convince people we were married when we couldn’t speak more than one word to each other?
My eyes darted to the bed at our side and I gulped. Christ. It was our wedding night. She didn’t expect us to consummate this thing, did she?
Her eyes followed mine, then widened with fear.
That’s a no.
“Um . . . where’s your ring?” she asked.
“Oh. I wasn’t sure if we were telling people. Or how you thought we should handle this.” I shifted to dig the ring out of my pocket, then slid it back on my finger. The damn thing was heavy.
“What are we going to do?” she whispered. “People need to think that we’re in love, but I don’t have a clue how we’re going to convince anyone when we just met last week.”
Thank fuck. “Me either.”
“This is awkward and horrible and—shit.” She waved her hands in the air, erasing the words. “I don’t mean you’re horrible, just this whole situation. You’re great, and I owe you so much.”
I lifted my left hand, wiggling my ring finger. “Think we’re even as of today.”
“No.” Her shoulders fell. “You saved my life, Isaiah. I realized after the ceremony that I haven’t said thank you.”
“You don’t need to.”
“Yes, I do.” She put her hand on my knee. “Thank you.”
I’d do it again, over and over if it meant saving her. “You’re welcome.”
“It’s not forever.” She gave me a sad smile. “A few years, maybe. We’ll make sure it all dies down and then we can call it quits.”
Years. That seemed like a long time to be married to a stranger. “I’m not ready to tell people.”
“I’m fine waiting a few days. We’re getting enough questions at the moment, so let’s not add this on top.”
“Sounds good,” I agreed. “Did Bryce come up from the garage earlier? I saw her when I got back from the courthouse.”
“Yeah.” Her eyes dropped to the floor. “I didn’t answer the door. Or her texts. I feel so bad. I haven’t known her for long, but she feels like a friend.”
“It’s hard not to like her.”
“Try getting stuffed in a trunk with her, then dragged up a mountain and tied up by a tree together. Bryce kept it together. She made me keep it together. I’ll never be able to repay her for that. She deserves the truth but . . .”
Our safety was in the lies.
“I hate lying,” she confessed.
Genevieve Daylee was a good person who’d been thrown into a fucking awful situation. Or was it Genevieve Reynolds now?
Would she change her last name? Was it strange that I wanted her to?
“Do you think anyone is going to buy this?” I asked.
“No.” She laughed. “But maybe if we stick it out long enough, they’ll come to accept it.”
The silence returned. I finished my Coke. Genevieve stared blankly across the apartment. The goddamn bed kept catching the corner of my eye.
I stood from the couch, taking my can to the recycling bin in the kitchen. “I’m going to head to the motel for another night.”
“Are you sure?” she asked, though there was relief in her voice.
“I think getting married is enough for today. We’ll save the wedding night for another time.”
Her face paled.
Oh, fuck. “No, that’s not what I meant. I mean a wedding night as in us both under the same roof. Not, you know.” I tossed a hand toward the bed. “We don’t have to, uh . . . do that. Ever.”
She gulped.
“See you tomorrow.” I marched to the door, leaving her wide-eyed on the couch. I jogged down the stairs and ran to my bike. Only when it was on the road did I start to breathe again.
Wedding night? What the hell had I been thinking? Genevieve and I wouldn’t have a wedding night. Pretending to be married to Genevieve didn’t mean we had to sleep together.
No, today’s kiss had been enough.
Especially since it still lingered on my lips.
Riven Knight
***
CHAPTER 1
Genevieve
“I’m disappointed.”
I’d take a slap across the face any day over that statement. It was especially sharp and painful today of all days, coming from Mr. Reggie Barker, a man I’d considered a mentor and professional hero.
“I’m sorry, Reggie.”
My boss—former boss—sighed on the other end of the phone. “Given the way you chose to leave the firm, I’m unable to give you a reference.”
I winced. “Oh, um . . . okay.”
Reggie felt that giving one week’s notice instead of two was a snub. It didn’t matter that I’d worked as his paralegal for the past four years, that I was the first person to arrive at the firm each morning and the last to leave each night. It didn’t matter that, while paralegals in the firm could study for their LSAT exams during work hours, I’d saved all my studies for home, ensuring every minute of my workday was dedicated to helping Reggie.
I’d pushed taking the exam four times because he’d cautioned me to be ready—stated in a way he didn’t think I was.
I’d trusted him. I’d valued his opinion above all others at the firm. I’d given him all that I’d had to give, and apparently, it wasn’t enough.
I was disappointed too.
I’d only called this morning because I’d forgotten to leave my office key behind. Now I wished I’d simply mailed it with a note.
“Best of luck, Genevieve.”
“Thank—”
He hung up the phone before I could finish. Twenty-seven was already shaping up to be a disaster.
Happy birthday to me.
I set my phone aside and stared through the windshield at the store ahead. I was parked in front of a small clothing shop on Central Avenue. It was the only store in Clifton Forge, Montana, that sold women’s clothing besides the farm-and-ranch-supply warehouse.
Clifton Forge.
My mom had gone to high school here. My grandparents, two people I’d never known, had been killed in a car accident and were buried here. Six weeks ago, the town of Clifton Forge was nothing more than a footnote in my family’s history.
Then Mom came for a visit and was viciously slaughtered at the local motel.
Now Clifton Forge wasn’t only a black spot on the past, it was also my home for the foreseeable future.
I longed to be at home in Denver, driving on familiar streets to familiar places. The allure of the highway had a strong pull. On the drive from Colorado, I’d been tempted more than once to turn around and never look back. To run and hide.
Except I’d made a promise to a perfect stranger, a man I’d known only hours. I wouldn’t break my word.
Not after what Isaiah had done for me.
So here I was, in Clifton Forge.
For months. Years. Decades. For as long as it takes. I owed Isaiah that time.
The queasy feeling I’d had for days surged, the bile rising in my throat. I swallowed it down, not wanting to think about a lifetime condemned to Montana. I didn’t have time to dwell on the possibilities—the consequences—of what was about to happen. I was supposed to meet Isaiah at noon, which only gave me two hours to get ready. So I steeled my spine, pushed the nerves away and got out of the car to do some shopping.
I refused to wear jeans today.
In the past week, I’d packed up everything in my condo in Denver, much like I’d done with my mother’s home, though this time not quite as soul shattering. Still, it had hurt and I’d cried every time I’d taped a box shut. All this change, all this loss—I was drowning.
Most of my larger belongings had gone into storage. Some had been packed to ship. And the rest had been crammed into my gray, four-door Toyota Camry, which I’d driven from Colorado to Montana yesterday.
Too frazzled, trying to pack and finish up my last week at work, I hadn’t thought to pack a dress. Maybe it was my subconscious protesting today’s nuptials.
But, like it or not, this wedding was happening, and I was not wearing jeans.
Especially on my birthday.
I’d taken extra care with my makeup this morning. I’d washed and styled my thick, brown hair using the expensive curling wand Mom had bought me last year.
It was the last birthday gift she’d ever give me.
My God, I missed her. She wouldn’t be here today to stand by my side as I made arguably the biggest mistake of my life. She wouldn’t be here for any more birthdays, because a vile and vicious human had snuffed out her life. It wasn’t fair.
Mom had been murdered, stabbed seven times, left to bleed out in a motel room alone. She’d died, leaving behind a trail of secrets and lies that were ruining her beautiful memory.
Why? I wanted to scream it to the heavens until she answered.
Why?
I was so angry at her. I was furious she hadn’t trusted me with the truth. That she hadn’t told me about my father. That I was here in this shitty little town because of her bad choices.
But damn it, I missed her. Today of all days, I wanted my mom.
Tears welled behind my sunglasses and I blinked them away before walking into the clothing store. I put on the fake smile I’d been wearing for weeks.
“Good morning,” the clerk greeted as the bell chimed over my head. “Please feel free to look around. Is there something in particular you’re looking for?”
“Actually, yes. I need a dress and heels.”
The heels would hurt. The soles of my feet were wrecked from running through the mountains with bare feet, but I’d suffer through it today.
“Oooh. I might have just the thing.” She came from around the counter where she’d been folding a sweater. “We just got this deep-green dress in yesterday. I’m obsessed with it. And it will go beautifully with your hair.”
“Perfect.”
Just as long as it isn’t white.
Thirty minutes later, I was home—a term I used loosely—because my temporary residence, this shitty apartment located above a shitty garage in a shitty town, was definitely no home. I pulled on my new sleeveless green wrap dress, adjusting the deep V-neck so not too much cleavage was showing. Then I stood on my tiptoes in the bathroom, trying to see myself in the mirror. Whoever had furnished this place didn’t seem to care what they looked like from the waist down.
I strapped on the nude heels I’d bought today too, wishing I’d had time for a pedicure. Was there even a place for pedicures in Clifton Forge? Instead, I rifled through my purse for the bottle of hot pink polish I’d tossed in there weeks ago for emergency touch-ups. I applied another coat and let it dry. There were so many layers now, it would take a jackhammer to chip it all off.
I fluffed my hair once more and swiped on a fresh coat of lip color. Noise from the Clifton Forge Garage carried up from the floor. The clang of metal on metal. The hum of a compressor. The muffled voices of men working.
Crossing the studio apartment, I stepped up to the only window that overlooked the parking lot below. A row of gleaming black motorcycles was parked against the edge of the property, lined up and equally spaced against a chain-link fence.
My half brother owned one of those bikes.
So did my father.
He was Mom’s biggest secret, one I’d only learned about because of her death. Would she have told me about him eventually? I guess it didn’t make a difference now. Except for a few times as a kid and then a bratty teenager, I hadn’t asked about him. I hadn’t needed a father when I’d had her as a mother.
She was everything I’d needed and more. And now she was gone, leaving me to deal with this family of strangers. What other secrets would I uncover in Clifton Forge? They seemed to be seeping from the boards of her coffin.
A man walked out from the garage, striding to a black bike that didn’t gleam like the others. It was the only motorcycle in the row I’d ridden.
Isaiah. A name that had been haunting my thoughts for days.
His stride was long and confident. He had a grace about his steps, an ease in the way those strong thighs lifted and his narrow hips rolled. But then came the thud, a heaviness each time his boot hit pavement.
It sounded a lot like dread.
I could sympathize.
He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes landing on my car parked by the stairs leading to the apartment. He stared at it for a long moment, then turned his gaze to the window.
I didn’t bother trying to hide. If he could see me past the dirt and water spots, it didn’t make a difference. Soon, there’d be no escaping his gaze.
It was impossible to see the color of his eyes from this distance, but like his name, they’d been a constant part of my dreams. And nightmares.
Green and brown and gold. Most would classify them as hazel and move along to his other mouth-watering qualities—the long legs, rock-hard stomach, chiseled arms decorated with tattoos and an ass that didn’t quit. But those eyes, they were exquisite.
The spiral of colors was ringed with a bold circle of dark chocolate. And though the pattern was intriguing, what made them so heartbreaking were the demons beneath.
There was no sparkle. No light. They were empty.
From his time in prison? Or from something more?
Isaiah gave me a single nod, then went to his bike, straddling the machine as it rumbled to life. It was time to go.
My heart jumped into my throat. I’m going to be sick. I swallowed down the wash of saliva in my mouth and breathed through my nose, because there wasn’t time to puke. It was almost noon.
I pulled myself away from the window and returned to the bathroom, tidying up the few things I’d left on the counter. While the rest of the studio was wide open, the bathroom had a door, which was good since I’d be sharing this space tonight.
Then with all my things put away in a travel case, I risked one long look in the mirror.
I looked pretty today, a fancier version of my normal self. In a way, I looked like Mom.
Damn it, Mom. Damn you for not being here. For making me do this alone.
I sucked in a breath, not allowing the threat of tears to ruin my mascara. I shoved those feelings deep, to a dark place where they’d stay until I could afford the breakdown needed. Now was not that time, no matter how fucked my life had become.
First, there was my job. By quitting, I’d killed my dream to one day become a lawyer and work alongside the great Reggie Barker. Did Clifton Forge even have lawyers? If so, I doubted any specialized in pro bono work for abused women. There certainly wasn’t a law school nearby. Which meant if I did find a job, I’d be stuck as a paralegal.
Goodbye, dream job.
Next, there was my condo, the one I’d picked out meticulously. The one I’d drained my savings account to buy. The one I’d been slowly decorating, taking care and patience to pick things that were perfect, not just things that filled empty spaces.
Goodbye, home.
It was agony to think of selling my condo, especially while I was stuck in a studio apartment, and not the swanky kind. No, this was the bachelor kind with white, cracked walls and old tan carpet.
Goodbye, life.
I trudged out of the bathroom, grabbed my purse and headed for the door. My heels clopped down the metal stairs as I gripped the handrail to keep my balance. When my shoes hit pavement, I hustled for the car, not risking a glance at the garage.
I’d been avoiding my half brother, Dash, and his girlfriend, Bryce, since I’d arrived yesterday. They had questions about what I was doing here. Why I was living in Isaiah’s apartment. How long I was staying.
I had answers but wasn’t ready to give them yet.
When I pulled out of the parking lot undetected, I breathed a long sigh, then followed my phone’s navigation toward downtown Clifton Forge.
I passed a wide river along the way. It meandered along the edge of town, bordered by trees that swayed in the breeze. The sun gleamed off its flowing currents. The mountains stood proud and blue in the distance. It was . . . picturesque.
Maybe I’d been a bit harsh in my judgment of Clifton Forge. It actually had the same country, quiet feel as some of the rural areas in Colorado, places Mom had taken me for weekend getaways. The garage wasn’t all that shitty either but fancy, like the garages you saw on car-resurrection shows.
Maybe, in time, I’d get to know the town and its people and not feel like a prisoner.
Today was not that day.
Today was day one of my sentence.
The closer I got to my destination, the faster my heart raced. Parking in one of the few open spaces in front of the Clifton Forge courthouse, I dug through my console for a handful of change to slot into the meter. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d used change instead of my credit card to pay for parking.
With it maxed out at two hours—I really hoped this didn’t take that long—I walked up the stairs that led to the red brick building. When I reached the door, my eyes caught sight of a familiar form waiting, and I stuttered a step.
“Hey.” Isaiah pushed off the wall.
“Hi,” I breathed, wiping my sweaty palms on my dress.
He was in a black button-up shirt and a pair of jeans, the same as he’d been in at the garage. They were clean jeans, a bit faded, and they fit him nicely. Still, they were jeans. I wasn’t sure why that bothered me. Maybe I should have just worn jeans too.
“What?” He glanced at himself.
I snapped my eyes away from those long legs, waving it off. “Nothing.”
“You look nice.” He ran a hand over his short brown hair, avoiding my eyes.
“Thanks. So do you.”
His black shirt was buttoned down to his wrists, covering the tattoos on his forearms. The one that ran behind his ear trailed down his neck before it disappeared under his collar. I wasn’t sure if he had any on his back, legs or chest, but each of his fingers had a different design. Ten small tattoos made of lines and dots, all situated across his knuckles.
“Ready?” I asked.
He nodded. “Are you sure about this?”
“We don’t have a choice.”
“No. I guess we don’t.”
Isaiah opened the door for me, but inside, he took the lead, guiding us through the courthouse hallways by the wooden signs hung on the walls. The floors had been freshly polished and the overwhelming smell of lemon filled my nose. We disappeared down a series of turns until we reached the door emblazoned with Clerk of the District Court. Underneath was a judge’s name. Below that was Justice of the Peace.
We were here. We were really doing this. I was marrying a stranger today. I was marrying the man who’d saved my life.
It was my turn to return the favor and save his.
Isaiah greeted the clerk at the front desk, speaking for us both because I’d forgotten how to work my tongue. I stood by his side, frozen and dazed, waiting as he filled out the marriage license application. When it was my turn, my hand shook as I filled in the blanks.
“Do you have your IDs?” the clerk asked. She took them both along with the application, then pointed to the row of chairs behind us. “You can have a seat.”
I clenched the arms of the chair as I sat, taking a few long breaths to stop my head from spinning. This was not how I’d imagined getting married. This was not special. I was in a green dress because I didn’t want to wear white when this marriage was a farce. I didn’t know my fiancé’s middle name or how he liked to be kissed. I didn’t know if he drank coffee or what side of the bed he slept on.
My mom wasn’t here to walk me down the aisle.
Blood pumped loud in my ears and the hammering in my chest hurt like crazy. I’d never had an anxiety attack before. Was that what this was? I’d gotten kidnapped just over a week ago and hadn’t flipped out then. If I could survive that experience, then this was a piece of cake.
It’s temporary. It’s only temporary. Eventually, we’d get a divorce and I’d be free to move home to Colorado. A few years here and then I’d get my life back. I could do this for Isaiah.
“We don’t have to do this,” he whispered.
“We do,” I insisted, finding the same determination I’d had when I’d suggested marriage in the first place. “We do.”
“Genevieve . . .” My name sounded so smooth in his deep voice. Each syllable was evenly spaced. He didn’t rush through it like a lot of people did.
I looked up at him, meeting that gorgeous gaze, and my heart softened. Isaiah was a nice man. A good man. He didn’t deserve to suffer because of my mother’s mistakes. “We’re doing this.”
“Isaiah and Genevieve?” The clerk waved us up, sliding a marriage license across the counter. “You’re all set. Just go right through there.”
We followed her finger through a door to our left, finding a man shuffling some papers on his oak desk. His glasses were perched low on his nose. His head was bald except for the ring of gray hair that ran from ear to ear.
“The future Mr. and Mrs.”—he scanned a paper on the desk—“Reynolds.”
Mrs. Reynolds. I gulped, then forced a smile. We were supposed to be in love—a couple who’d met and fallen in love on the same day—so I slipped my hand into Isaiah’s, tensing as the heat and callouses from his palm hit mine.
He didn’t flinch but his frame tightened.
“Shall we?” The judge motioned us to the middle of the room. We stood in front of him as he took up his position and gave us both a kind smile. If he could sense our fear, he didn’t comment.
“Do you have rings?”
Panic hit hard. In everything I’d done this past week, I hadn’t thought to get rings. “I, uh—”
“Here.” Isaiah fished two rings out of his jeans pocket. One was a simple band. Not gold or silver but a dark gray, like titanium. And the other was a thin platinum band with a halo of small diamonds in the center.
My mouth fell open.
“It’s not much.” Isaiah swallowed, embarrassment coloring his cheeks.
“It’s beautiful.” I squeezed his hand, then took the ring. Beautiful was the truth. The diamonds weren’t huge, but I didn’t need huge. He’d already done enough. “Thank you.”
“Excellent.” The judge smiled. “Isaiah, Genevieve, please join hands.”
We did, facing one another. Direct eye contact was fleeting at best. Mostly, I focused on Isaiah’s nose and its wide bridge. It was an admirable nose, strong and straight, set perfectly between those haunted eyes.
“By joining hands, you are consenting to be bound together. Husband and wife. You are promising to honor, love and support each other. Do you, Isaiah, take Genevieve as your wife?”
His eyes found mine. “I do.”
“Do you, Genevieve, take Isaiah as your husband?”
“I do.”
Two words and it was done. I was married.
“Then by the authority vested in me by the great state of Montana, I pronounce you husband and wife. I wish you the best of luck in your marriage, Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds.”
Marriage.
It was done.
Isaiah was safe. No one in the world could make me tell them what had happened at that cabin in the mountains. Because now, I was his wife.
I turned to the justice, ready to say thank you, then make my escape. But he opened his mouth for one last statement that made all the color drain from Isaiah’s face.
“Isaiah, you may now kiss your bride.”
***
CHAPTER 2
Isaiah
The last woman I’d kissed was the woman I’d killed.
Not exactly the thought a groom wants flashing through his mind as he’s standing across from his bride.
Genevieve looked about as terrified of this kiss as I did. Her eyes were wide and full of apprehension. Her lips were pressed into a firm line. No entry. Got it.
Fuck. The judge was waiting. Genevieve wasn’t making a move and I just wanted to get this over with.
I dropped my mouth to hers, closing my eyes on the way. It wasn’t . . . horrible. Genevieve didn’t have on sticky gloss. Her lips were soft and full. I held there, pretending to be her loving husband for ten seconds. Was that enough?
It was going to have to be. I pulled away and dropped my eyes to the floor. Guilt gnawed at my insides. I hadn’t eaten in two days. I hadn’t slept in three. Everything about this situation was wrong, but what the hell was I supposed to do? Genevieve thought this would work and that this marriage could keep me out of prison.
And I’d die before spending another day in a cell.
“Thank you,” Genevieve told the justice of the peace. We were still holding hands. She squeezed mine tight, forcing my gaze up, then practically dragged me out of the room. The clerk at the front desk was all smiles as she tossed out congratulations.
I grunted. Genevieve nodded.
We walked in silence, our hands linked loosely, until we got outside, then she dropped my hand like a hot plate and we both took a step apart.
“So, um”—she touched her lips—“that’s done.”
“Yeah.” Done.
We were married.
What the fuck are we doing? If this blew up, it wouldn’t only be bad for me, it could ruin her life. The corner of our marriage license poked out of her purse. Doubts or not, there was no turning back.
“I’m going to head back to work.”
“Okay. Good idea. I guess I’ll just . . .” She blinked a couple of times, then shook her head, walking down the stairs toward the street where she’d parked.
My bike was five spaces ahead of hers. I waited long enough to make sure she was in her car, then hustled to my bike and got the hell away from the courthouse.
I knew Genevieve would head for Central. It was the fastest way across town and to the garage. I took the side streets, needing some separation—from my wife—to get my head on right.
Why were my lips still burning? No matter how many times I wiped them, the feel of hers remained. Maybe because I hadn’t kissed anyone in a long time.
Six years, one month, two weeks and four days, to be exact. Memorial Day. That was the last time I’d kissed a woman. I’d planned to marry Shannon, but then . . .
Thinking about her was painful. Each beat of my heart pricked. My lungs burned. I’d married Genevieve when my soul was held captive by a ghost.
Genevieve and Shannon were like night and day. Shannon had been a happy, softly spoken person, her voice a chime and her face set in a perpetual smile. Genevieve had a husky, resonating voice. Even her whisper was bold. Her dark hair and dark eyes didn’t blend with the sunshine or float on the breeze. Genevieve was a force, one who had changed my life forever.
The metal band on my ring finger bit into my palm as I gripped the handlebars. It was cheap metal, the only thing I could afford after buying Genevieve’s ring.
She’d saved my life today, and for that, she deserved much more than the chip I’d slid onto her finger. But she’d seemed to like it. She’d stared at the halo of diamonds in awe.
Genevieve spoke with her beautiful eyes. Every emotion, every feeling, flashed in her rich, coffee-colored gaze.
I’d do right by her. I’d be respectful and honest. Fake marriage or not, I wasn’t a guy who strayed. I’d do my best to make this easy for her.
And I wouldn’t fail Genevieve—not like I’d failed Shannon.
The garage came into view and my stomach knotted.
I’d come to care about the people at the garage. They were my coworkers, maybe even my friends. They’d given a fucked-up ex-con a chance to build a new life in a new town. I might not have been forthcoming about my past with them, but I had been honest.
Starting today, I’d look them in the eye and tell them lie after lie.
But it was the only choice. After everything that had happened on that mountain, in that cabin, Genevieve and I had to lie.
The day of the mountain, after taking Genevieve to the airport in Bozeman so she could fly to Colorado and pack up her stuff, I’d returned to Clifton Forge and been assaulted with questions. My boss, Dash, asked questions. His girlfriend, Bryce, who’d been kidnapped with Genevieve, asked questions. Draven, Emmett, Leo—they all asked questions.
I had no truths to give.
So I left town without a word, hiding in Bozeman at my mom’s house for a week, until Genevieve was due to arrive in Montana. It would be easier to lie with her here, wouldn’t it?
Dash was pissed that I’d ditched work. I was lucky he hadn’t fired me on the spot. Because, damn it, I needed this job. I liked this job, and there were few things I genuinely liked these days. I didn’t deserve his grace, but I’d take it.
That was only yesterday.
The blur of the past week made my head spin.
Ever since Genevieve Daylee had entered my life, the order and simplicity I craved and found had vanished.
I parked at the garage and walked toward the open bay doors. The shop was bright and spacious. The tools were a dream. Maybe one day Dash would let me move beyond oil changes and tune-ups so I could work on the custom rebuilds that this garage was becoming famous for.
“Hey, Isaiah.” Bryce waved from a chair beside a truck. Dash was under the raised hood. “We just saw Genevieve head up to your apartment.”
“Yeah.” I glanced over my shoulder to where Genevieve’s gray Toyota was parked in a spot beside the office, one of three spaces near the stairs to the apartment above.
“She’s living with you?”
“Uh . . . yeah.”
Damn it. Genevieve and I should have talked about this. Were we telling people we’d gotten married? Should we keep it a secret for a while? Eventually we’d have to share, but I didn’t trust myself to deliver the news today and not fuck it up. They had to believe we were in love. There was no way I could sell love at first sight right now.
If I kept quiet, then maybe the questions would stop. That had worked for me in prison. I hadn’t talked unless absolutely necessary. It had been the best way to make sure I didn’t say something stupid and get my ass kicked for nothing.
Dash stood from under the hood with a socket wrench in his hand. “Hey.”
“Hey. Thanks for the break,” I told him, avoiding Bryce’s narrowing gaze.
She was a reporter, and a damn smart woman at that. She was likely sniffing out the unspoken lies at the moment, but there was no way I’d talk. She could glare at me all she wanted, fire question after question. I’d spent three years in prison shutting people out. Bryce didn’t stand a chance.
“What would you like me to work on?” I asked Dash.
He jerked his thumb at the truck. “Finish up this oil change if you want.”
“Sure thing.”
I walked over to the tool bench, glancing down at my jeans. They were the nicest pair I owned and the only ones without grease stains. I’d bought them in Bozeman specifically for today because I hadn’t wanted to get married in dirty jeans.
Genevieve had taken me in from head to toe at the courthouse, and though she’d said I looked nice, I realized jeans had been a mistake. I’d felt like trash standing next to her, this stunning woman in a green dress.
She deserved better than jeans. Genevieve deserved better than me. But selfish bastard that I was, I’d let her hitch her wagon to mine.
I was probably going to crash us both.
“You good?” Dash came up to my side and clapped a hand on my shoulder.
“Yeah, man. I’m good.”
How would he react to the news that I wasn’t just his employee now, but his brother-in-law? Or half brother-in-law? This family dynamic was weird.
I wasn’t sure what was going on with the Slater family. I’d only moved to Clifton Forge this summer to take a mechanic job at the garage. I’d been desperate to get away from Bozeman, where memories haunted every road.
A guy who’d been inside with me had connected me with Draven, Dash’s father. He’d interviewed and hired me, though I officially reported to Dash. The pay hadn’t been much at first, but it must have been probationary, because they’d quickly bumped up my hourly wage. That, and when my landlord had screwed me over, Dash had given me the apartment above the garage rent-free.
Had moving here been the right choice? If I’d stayed in Bozeman, I wouldn’t have gotten married today. I wouldn’t have gotten mixed up in a fucking kidnapping. I wouldn’t have tangled my life with a former motorcycle gang.
The Tin Gypsies had closed their clubhouse doors, but that hadn’t kept trouble away, had it?
Six weeks ago, Genevieve’s mother, Amina, had been murdered at the local motel. She’d been brutally stabbed to death. Draven, the first person I’d met in Clifton Forge and a man who I’d deemed decent, had been pinned for the crime.
Draven had been the president of the Tin Gypsies until he’d passed the title to Dash. They didn’t wear their patches or leather vests any longer, but the targets remained on their backs.
I didn’t know all the details about the club—didn’t want to. Dash and Draven kept quiet about it. So did Emmett and Leo, two of the other mechanics who worked at the garage and had been part of the club.
They’d all sheltered me from the details, but I’d picked up on a few things. Mostly, that Draven was innocent. He was being framed for Amina’s death. I’d stayed out of it until Bryce had been kidnapped.
Everything changed that day.
I’d gone with Dash and the guys to rescue her. I liked Bryce and I’d wanted to help. We’d found her in the mountains, frozen and scared. That’s where I’d found Genevieve too.
In the middle of a hell that had already broken loose.
Genevieve and I needed to get our stories straight. We had to work out what lies we were telling and what truths we’d use to fill in the gaps. I didn’t have the energy to hash it out today.
For now, I needed the reliability of work.
As I pulled on some coveralls to save my jeans, Dash put his tools away in a drawer. When they were stowed, he gave me a nod. “Glad you’re back.”
“Appreciate the second chance.”
He shrugged. “Around here, we believe in second chances. Third and fourth, actually. Just ask Leo how many times Dad has fired him over the years.”
“I won’t let you down again,” I promised.
“Good.” Dash nodded, then disappeared into the office with Bryce.
I opened a drawer on the workbench and the ring on my hand caught the overhead florescent light. Shit. I checked over both shoulders to make sure the other guys weren’t close, then I slipped the ring off and into my pocket where it would stay. At least I had an excuse as to why I wouldn’t wear it. Rings at work were a good way for mechanics to lose fingers.
How had this happened? I’d come to work one day, gone on a motorcycle chase to rescue my boss’s girlfriend and now had a wife.
Mom always said trouble found me no matter where I went.
I grabbed a handful of tools and got started on the oil change. I hadn’t been a mechanic for long, but I was a fast learner and auto mechanics came naturally. Gears fit with other gears. Bolts threaded through nuts. A screw tightened with a turn to the right and loosened with a turn to the left. I soaked in the simplicity that one part was designed for another and blocked out the chaos of my life.
I spent the rest of the day on oil changes and one bumper-to-bumper inspection. Even after Dash and Bryce went home, followed soon by Emmett and Leo, I kept working.
The last place I wanted to go was upstairs where Genevieve waited.
“Isaiah? Are you still here?”
I turned from the shop sink as Presley’s voice carried through the garage. “Yeah.”
“Okay. Want me to lock up?”
“Nah. I got it.” I shook my hands dry.
Presley left the doorway to the office and walked deeper into the shop. Her hair was like snow, cut short at the sides and swooped long on top. She tucked her hands in her overalls as she approached, the denim baggy around her small frame. Emmett always teased that she was no bigger than a fairy princess.
“I know I said it this morning, but I’m glad you’re back.”
“Me too. How are things?”
“Good.” She shrugged. “I’m just going home for the day. You should too.”
I’d drag myself upstairs soon enough. “Yeah.”
Presley had to know Genevieve was in the apartment, but she didn’t ask. She was the one person at the garage who didn’t have questions. Maybe because she knew I wouldn’t talk.
The two of us had formed a fast friendship. She hadn’t been part of the Tin Gypsy world either, something that had paired us together as outsiders. We fit in the garage family, but while the others whispered about secrets, Presley and I bonded over coffee in the office.
She didn’t ask me about prison. She didn’t ask me about my past. When we talked, it was mostly about her or life in Clifton Forge. She told me the best place in town to get a cheeseburger and where to go for haircuts. Presley had been my sounding board when my landlord had jacked up my rent.
“How’s it coming along upstairs? Did you get it all cleaned out?” she asked.
I nodded. “For the most part. Needs paint and some updates, but I want to run those by Dash before I go making major changes.”
When I’d moved to town, I’d rented an apartment not far from here. The landlord hadn’t liked my record—no one did, including me. Still, he’d let me rent a place on a month-to-month lease. Not two weeks later, right about the time Dash had given me a raise, he’d come over to tell me he was doubling my rent.
Maybe it was because I was an ex-con and he knew I wouldn’t find another place to live. Presley’s theory was he’d learned I was working at the garage and knew Dash paid his mechanics a fair wage.
She was a good one to have in your corner.
Pres had gone to Dash, unasked by me, and talked to him about letting me move into the upstairs apartment. All it had cost me was some time cleaning it up.
Even after hours of scrubbing the walls and shampooing the carpet, it wasn’t good enough for Genevieve. It was an apartment made for a bachelor, not a classy, poised woman who walked into a room and captured everyone’s attention.
“Is everything all right?” Presley asked. “I know you and Genevieve are keeping to yourselves right now and that’s fine. You don’t have to tell me details. I’m not trying to butt into your love life. But . . . are you good?”
“Yeah,” I answered honestly. Thanks to Genevieve. She might be out of her mind with this marriage idea, but if it worked, I’d be more than good. I’d be free. “Thanks, Pres.”
“Anytime. See you tomorrow?”
I nodded. “Tomorrow.”
Presley left through the office as I shut down everything in the shop, turning off the rows of florescent lights and closing each of the large bay doors. I locked up the side door, loitered on the asphalt for a long minute and, when I couldn’t avoid it any longer, forced my feet up the black, iron staircase that led to my apartment.
I paused at the doorknob. Should I knock? I lived here. My bed, my belongings were all inside. But with Genevieve having moved in yesterday, it didn’t feel like my home anymore.
My knuckles tapped on the door before I pushed it open.
Genevieve was on the couch, sitting cross-legged with her laptop balanced on her thighs. Her back stiffened as I entered. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I shut the door behind me and went to the kitchen to my left, grabbing a pop from the fridge. “Working on something?”
“Trying to find a job.”
“Hmm.” The can hissed as I popped it open. I chugged three gulps, letting the fizz and sugar slide down my throat.
Genevieve closed her laptop and set it aside. Her dark hair was piled on top of her head, the waves from earlier in the day trapped in a white ribbon. The dress was gone. She’d traded it for a pair of maroon leggings and a T-shirt that dipped over one shoulder, showcasing her collarbone.
Just that little sliver of skin and my heart galloped. My fingers itched to graze her smooth, creamy skin. I took another drink of Coke, shoving my reaction to Genevieve’s beauty away.
The urge to touch her was simply physical. Today’s kiss had stirred up some pent-up sexual frustration that had been absent for years. After a few days, it would be buried again and forgotten. I’d learn how to live with this gorgeous woman who was far too beautiful to be in this dingy room, even in her loungewear.
Her outfit was hot, but not as sexy as the green dress from the courthouse.
“We didn’t get a picture,” I muttered.
“Huh?”
I went to the couch, sitting as far away from her as the piece would allow. “A picture. We didn’t get one today. Do you think that’ll be suspicious? People are going to expect a picture from the wedding, right?”
“Oh.” Her shoulders fell. “I didn’t think of that either. Maybe we could say we’re getting them done later or something.”
“Yeah.”
An awkward quiet hovered over the couch. It was the same silence that we’d endured yesterday after moving her boxes and suitcases in from her car. I’d stuck it out for a few hours, but it had become uncomfortable, so I’d excused myself for the night and rented a room at the motel.
“So.” I drew out the word.
“So.”
How were we supposed to convince people we were married when we couldn’t speak more than one word to each other?
My eyes darted to the bed at our side and I gulped. Christ. It was our wedding night. She didn’t expect us to consummate this thing, did she?
Her eyes followed mine, then widened with fear.
That’s a no.
“Um . . . where’s your ring?” she asked.
“Oh. I wasn’t sure if we were telling people. Or how you thought we should handle this.” I shifted to dig the ring out of my pocket, then slid it back on my finger. The damn thing was heavy.
“What are we going to do?” she whispered. “People need to think that we’re in love, but I don’t have a clue how we’re going to convince anyone when we just met last week.”
Thank fuck. “Me either.”
“This is awkward and horrible and—shit.” She waved her hands in the air, erasing the words. “I don’t mean you’re horrible, just this whole situation. You’re great, and I owe you so much.”
I lifted my left hand, wiggling my ring finger. “Think we’re even as of today.”
“No.” Her shoulders fell. “You saved my life, Isaiah. I realized after the ceremony that I haven’t said thank you.”
“You don’t need to.”
“Yes, I do.” She put her hand on my knee. “Thank you.”
I’d do it again, over and over if it meant saving her. “You’re welcome.”
“It’s not forever.” She gave me a sad smile. “A few years, maybe. We’ll make sure it all dies down and then we can call it quits.”
Years. That seemed like a long time to be married to a stranger. “I’m not ready to tell people.”
“I’m fine waiting a few days. We’re getting enough questions at the moment, so let’s not add this on top.”
“Sounds good,” I agreed. “Did Bryce come up from the garage earlier? I saw her when I got back from the courthouse.”
“Yeah.” Her eyes dropped to the floor. “I didn’t answer the door. Or her texts. I feel so bad. I haven’t known her for long, but she feels like a friend.”
“It’s hard not to like her.”
“Try getting stuffed in a trunk with her, then dragged up a mountain and tied up by a tree together. Bryce kept it together. She made me keep it together. I’ll never be able to repay her for that. She deserves the truth but . . .”
Our safety was in the lies.
“I hate lying,” she confessed.
Genevieve Daylee was a good person who’d been thrown into a fucking awful situation. Or was it Genevieve Reynolds now?
Would she change her last name? Was it strange that I wanted her to?
“Do you think anyone is going to buy this?” I asked.
“No.” She laughed. “But maybe if we stick it out long enough, they’ll come to accept it.”
The silence returned. I finished my Coke. Genevieve stared blankly across the apartment. The goddamn bed kept catching the corner of my eye.
I stood from the couch, taking my can to the recycling bin in the kitchen. “I’m going to head to the motel for another night.”
“Are you sure?” she asked, though there was relief in her voice.
“I think getting married is enough for today. We’ll save the wedding night for another time.”
Her face paled.
Oh, fuck. “No, that’s not what I meant. I mean a wedding night as in us both under the same roof. Not, you know.” I tossed a hand toward the bed. “We don’t have to, uh . . . do that. Ever.”
She gulped.
“See you tomorrow.” I marched to the door, leaving her wide-eyed on the couch. I jogged down the stairs and ran to my bike. Only when it was on the road did I start to breathe again.
Wedding night? What the hell had I been thinking? Genevieve and I wouldn’t have a wedding night. Pretending to be married to Genevieve didn’t mean we had to sleep together.
No, today’s kiss had been enough.
Especially since it still lingered on my lips.
Riven Knight
November 14, 2018
EXCERPT: Tragic
Tragic is the third standalone in the Lark Cove series. If you’ve read Tattered, you met Piper, Logan’s sarcastic and lovable assistant. This is her story. Her hero’s name is Kaine Reynolds, and let me tell you, I’ve never rooted so hard for a character to get a happily-ever-after as I did for Kaine. Want a sneak peek? Read the Prologue now!
PROLOGUE
Kaine
One or two.
“Kaine?” Mom’s voice echoed off the cement walls as she stepped outside. The glass door swished as it closed behind her.
I didn’t look at her as she stepped up to my side. My eyes were aimed blankly ahead as I wrestled with my decision.
One or two.
“What are you doing out here?” she asked. “We’ve been looking all over the hospital for you.”
I wasn’t sure how long I’d been standing out here. I’d told Mom that I was going to the bathroom and that I’d be back soon to talk with the doctors. But when I’d passed this exit door, hidden on the bottom floor in the back wing of the hospital, it had beckoned me through.
I’d needed a few moments away from the red-rimmed eyes and sniffling noses. I’d needed just a few seconds to pass without a single person asking me if I was okay.
I needed some quiet to decide.
One or two.
The parking lot ahead of me was shrouded in darkness. The night itself was pitch-black. There were no stars shining. There was no moon glowing. A thick fog had settled in, dulling the light of the streetlamps so their beams barely illuminated the few cars parked on the asphalt. The air should have been cold on my bare arms, but I couldn’t feel it.
I was numb.
I’d felt this way for hours, ever since they took her from my arms.
One or two.
It was an impossible choice, one I shouldn’t have to make. But because of him, it was inevitable.
“Kaine, I’m so sorry. What can I do?”
“I can’t decide.” My voice was rough as I spoke, the burn of rage and sorrow and pain making it nearly impossible to speak.
“Decide what?” she whispered. I didn’t need to look to know that Mom’s eyes were full of tears. Her dark hair had gotten a dozen new grays tonight. Her normally cheery and bright hazel eyes held their own fog of grief.
“One or two.”
“One or two what?”
I swallowed the fire in my throat. “Graves.”
One or two.
“Oh, Kaine.” Mom began to weep and her hand reached for my arm, but I shied away. “Please come inside, sweetheart. Please. We need to talk about this. He needs to talk to you. Give him a chance to explain.”
“I have nothing to say to him.” He’d done this. He was the reason I had to decide.
“Kaine, it was an accident. A tragic accident.” She hiccupped. “He—”
I walked away before she could finish. I walked right into the dark, wishing this blackness would swallow me whole.
Mom’s voice rang across the parking lot as she called out, but I simply walked, my boots carrying me into the black.
One or two.
An impossible choice.
As if the heavens sensed my despair, the clouds opened. Rain poured down, soaking my dark hair. It dripped over my eyes and coated my cheeks. The water soaked my jeans, making them cling to my legs.
But I couldn’t feel the water droplets as they streamed down the bridge of my nose. I couldn’t feel the locks of hair that were stuck to my forehead. I couldn’t feel the wet denim on my thighs as it rubbed my skin raw.
I was numb. There was nothing.
Nothing except the weight of four pounds, two ounces wrapped in a pink blanket resting in my arms as I said good-bye.
One or two.
What would Shannon want?
One. She’d choose one.
So I’d bury them together.
Then surrender to the black.
Tragic
PROLOGUE
Kaine
One or two.
“Kaine?” Mom’s voice echoed off the cement walls as she stepped outside. The glass door swished as it closed behind her.
I didn’t look at her as she stepped up to my side. My eyes were aimed blankly ahead as I wrestled with my decision.
One or two.
“What are you doing out here?” she asked. “We’ve been looking all over the hospital for you.”
I wasn’t sure how long I’d been standing out here. I’d told Mom that I was going to the bathroom and that I’d be back soon to talk with the doctors. But when I’d passed this exit door, hidden on the bottom floor in the back wing of the hospital, it had beckoned me through.
I’d needed a few moments away from the red-rimmed eyes and sniffling noses. I’d needed just a few seconds to pass without a single person asking me if I was okay.
I needed some quiet to decide.
One or two.
The parking lot ahead of me was shrouded in darkness. The night itself was pitch-black. There were no stars shining. There was no moon glowing. A thick fog had settled in, dulling the light of the streetlamps so their beams barely illuminated the few cars parked on the asphalt. The air should have been cold on my bare arms, but I couldn’t feel it.
I was numb.
I’d felt this way for hours, ever since they took her from my arms.
One or two.
It was an impossible choice, one I shouldn’t have to make. But because of him, it was inevitable.
“Kaine, I’m so sorry. What can I do?”
“I can’t decide.” My voice was rough as I spoke, the burn of rage and sorrow and pain making it nearly impossible to speak.
“Decide what?” she whispered. I didn’t need to look to know that Mom’s eyes were full of tears. Her dark hair had gotten a dozen new grays tonight. Her normally cheery and bright hazel eyes held their own fog of grief.
“One or two.”
“One or two what?”
I swallowed the fire in my throat. “Graves.”
One or two.
“Oh, Kaine.” Mom began to weep and her hand reached for my arm, but I shied away. “Please come inside, sweetheart. Please. We need to talk about this. He needs to talk to you. Give him a chance to explain.”
“I have nothing to say to him.” He’d done this. He was the reason I had to decide.
“Kaine, it was an accident. A tragic accident.” She hiccupped. “He—”
I walked away before she could finish. I walked right into the dark, wishing this blackness would swallow me whole.
Mom’s voice rang across the parking lot as she called out, but I simply walked, my boots carrying me into the black.
One or two.
An impossible choice.
As if the heavens sensed my despair, the clouds opened. Rain poured down, soaking my dark hair. It dripped over my eyes and coated my cheeks. The water soaked my jeans, making them cling to my legs.
But I couldn’t feel the water droplets as they streamed down the bridge of my nose. I couldn’t feel the locks of hair that were stuck to my forehead. I couldn’t feel the wet denim on my thighs as it rubbed my skin raw.
I was numb. There was nothing.
Nothing except the weight of four pounds, two ounces wrapped in a pink blanket resting in my arms as I said good-bye.
One or two.
What would Shannon want?
One. She’d choose one.
So I’d bury them together.
Then surrender to the black.
Tragic
September 4, 2018
EXCERPT: Timid
Timid is the second standalone in the Lark Cove series. If you've read Tattered, you met Jackson, the easy-going yet closed-off bartender. And you were also introduced to Willa, one of my favorite heroines (if not THE favorite heroine) that I've ever written. Want a sneak peek? Read the Prologue now!
PROLOGUE
“Dad, is it okay if I get two—”
The Snickers bar in my hand slipped out of my grasp and dropped to the floor. My jaw was down there too, thanks to one glimpse at the man walking through the gas station door.
He was, without contest, the most beautiful man in the world. No, the universe. He’d stepped straight out of my Seventeen magazine and into the Lark Cove Gas ’N’ Go.
His golden-blond hair was buzzed short to his scalp, a cut seen regularly in the hallways of my high school because most boys in Lark Cove had their moms whip out the bathroom clippers once a month. Except nothing about this man’s haircut was boyish. On him, it was rugged. A little dangerous even. This guy couldn’t be bothered to style his hair. He had more important things to do, like bench-press cars or battle zombies or rescue kittens from treetops.
Hidden in the candy aisle, I peered around a display of Doritos as he grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler by the register. He set it on the counter and dug out a wallet from his back jeans pocket.
“Just the water?” the clerk asked.
The man nodded. “And the gas on pump two.”
A shiver ran down my spine at his low, rumbling voice. He made the words gas and pump sound hot.
The clerk punched in some numbers on the till. “Anything else?”
The man leaned back from the counter, eyeing the row of candy bars placed below for impulse buys, then grabbed a Snickers.
We liked the same candy. That had to mean something. Like . . . fate.
He handed the bar to the clerk before casually leaning an elbow on the counter. His shoulders pivoted my way, enough so I could get a better look at his face but not enough he could see me spying. With a smile, he nodded to the lottery ticket machine. “I’ll take a Powerball too. Maybe it’s my lucky day.”
My knees wobbled at that smile. Wowzah. His soft lips stretched over straight, white teeth. His sky-blue eyes brightened. The smile softened his square jaw just enough that he became a whole different kind of dangerous. It was the kind that made me want to do stupid, embarrassing things just to get a fraction of his attention. It was a smile that vaporized the two-year crush I’d had on Brendon Jacoby, my lab partner in biology.
I couldn’t like a boy now that I’d seen this man.
Who was he? He had to be a tourist passing through town. I’d lived in Lark Cove my entire life and never seen this guy before, which meant I’d probably never see him again.
My stomach dropped. Doing the only thing I could think of, I closed my eyes and said a prayer that we’d get a freak July snowstorm and the man would be trapped here for at least a week, preferably without a place to stay other than my house.
“Hey there, Jackson.” My eyes popped open as Dad walked up to the register with his hand extended. “Nice to see you again.”
“You too.” A frenzy of excitement shot through my veins as the two shook hands. “It’s Nate, right?”
“That’s right.” Dad smiled. “My wife, Betty, and I were down at the bar last week.”
“For your anniversary.” Jackson snapped his fingers as he put it together.
“Right again. Are you getting all settled into town?”
“I am. I didn’t have much to move so it made unpacking easy.”
Jackson said something else to Dad, but my heart was beating so hard I couldn’t focus on their conversation.
Jackson. His name was Jackson. And he lived in Lark Cove.
“Willa.”
Jackson and Willa. Willa and Jackson. Our names went together like peanut butter and jelly.
“Willa.”
Maybe people in town would merge us into a nickname. Will-son. Jack-illa. Both were terrible, but I’d think of something better tonight.
“Earth to Willa!”
I flinched, my eyes whipping up. “Huh?”
Dad shook his head and laughed. “Lost in outer space again?”
“Yeah.” Heat crept up my cheeks as I bent to pick up my fallen Snickers. With it in hand, I came out from behind the aisle.
“Jackson, meet my daughter.” Before Dad could finish his introduction, the clerk stole his attention, asking if he wanted his weekly scratch ticket too.
“Hey.” Jackson waved. “I’m Jackson.”
“I’m Willa,” I mumbled. Articulating words was impossible standing in front of him.
“Nice to meet you, Willow.”
“It’s, um . . . Willa.”
But Jackson had already turned away. The clerk had his attention again, joking with both Jackson and Dad that if either won the lottery, he wanted a kickback.
With his purchases in hand, Jackson said good-bye to Dad and went right for the door and pushed outside.
“Ready to go?” Dad asked.
I nodded and handed him my Snickers.
As the clerk rang up my candy bar, Dad’s ticket, a bag of M&M’s and two cans of Coke, I peered outside, hoping to get one last glimpse of Jackson. But with the front windows stacked full of beer boxes and a rotating rack of maps blocking the only other free space, I couldn’t see anything past our car parked right outside the door.
I drummed my fingers on the counter, willing the clerk to make change faster. Finally, he handed Dad a dollar and some coins, and I bolted for the door, stepping into the bright, summer sunshine just in time to see Jackson slide into an old Chevy truck.
“Did you forget something, honey?” Dad appeared at my side, handing me my Snickers and Coke.
“Whoopsie. Sorry, Dad.”
He just laughed. “It’s okay.”
I took my things, then slowly walked toward our car, keeping one eye on Jackson’s truck as it pulled onto the highway. When it disappeared behind a patch of trees, I sighed and resumed normal speed, opening the passenger door and sliding inside.
Luckily for me, Dad didn’t comment on my strange behavior. He just popped the top on his Coke, took a sip and backed us out of the parking lot to go home.
“Um, Dad? Who was that?”
He pulled onto the highway, going the opposite direction of where Jackson had turned. “Who was who?”
“That guy you introduced me to in the gas station. I haven’t seen him around before.” I added that last part hoping I sounded more curious than desperate for information.
“That’s Jackson Page. He just moved to town to work with Hazel down at the bar. I think he’s from New York or New Jersey. I can’t remember.”
“That’s good.” More like freaking fantastic.
Dad gave me a sideways glance. “Is it?”
Uh-oh. Maybe I hadn’t hidden my crush as well as I’d hoped. “Totally!” It came out too loud as I scrambled for a recovery. “It’s, um, good that Hazel has some help. Don’t you think she’s kind of old to be working at the bar all by herself?”
Dad frowned as he turned down the street toward our house. “Old? Hazel isn’t all that much older than me and your mom. But I guess teenagers think anyone past thirty is old.”
I giggled. “Ancient. You’re practically fossils.”
“Ouch.” He clutched his heart, pretending to be hurt as he pulled into our driveway.
“Just kidding.”
Dad smiled. “Try to save part of your candy bar until after dinner.”
“Deal.” I hopped out of the car, escaping inside while Dad went to check on Mom’s progress in her vegetable garden.
I yanked my diary out from underneath my mattress and got comfortable on my bed. Then I tore into my Snickers bar, chewing as I opened to a blank page. My pen flew across the paper, leaving a trail of purple ink as I recounted every second at the gas station. When I was done, I closed the book and clutched it to my chest, smiling at the last line I’d written.
One day, I am going to marry Jackson Page.
I just had to get him to notice me first.
Timid
PROLOGUE
“Dad, is it okay if I get two—”
The Snickers bar in my hand slipped out of my grasp and dropped to the floor. My jaw was down there too, thanks to one glimpse at the man walking through the gas station door.
He was, without contest, the most beautiful man in the world. No, the universe. He’d stepped straight out of my Seventeen magazine and into the Lark Cove Gas ’N’ Go.
His golden-blond hair was buzzed short to his scalp, a cut seen regularly in the hallways of my high school because most boys in Lark Cove had their moms whip out the bathroom clippers once a month. Except nothing about this man’s haircut was boyish. On him, it was rugged. A little dangerous even. This guy couldn’t be bothered to style his hair. He had more important things to do, like bench-press cars or battle zombies or rescue kittens from treetops.
Hidden in the candy aisle, I peered around a display of Doritos as he grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler by the register. He set it on the counter and dug out a wallet from his back jeans pocket.
“Just the water?” the clerk asked.
The man nodded. “And the gas on pump two.”
A shiver ran down my spine at his low, rumbling voice. He made the words gas and pump sound hot.
The clerk punched in some numbers on the till. “Anything else?”
The man leaned back from the counter, eyeing the row of candy bars placed below for impulse buys, then grabbed a Snickers.
We liked the same candy. That had to mean something. Like . . . fate.
He handed the bar to the clerk before casually leaning an elbow on the counter. His shoulders pivoted my way, enough so I could get a better look at his face but not enough he could see me spying. With a smile, he nodded to the lottery ticket machine. “I’ll take a Powerball too. Maybe it’s my lucky day.”
My knees wobbled at that smile. Wowzah. His soft lips stretched over straight, white teeth. His sky-blue eyes brightened. The smile softened his square jaw just enough that he became a whole different kind of dangerous. It was the kind that made me want to do stupid, embarrassing things just to get a fraction of his attention. It was a smile that vaporized the two-year crush I’d had on Brendon Jacoby, my lab partner in biology.
I couldn’t like a boy now that I’d seen this man.
Who was he? He had to be a tourist passing through town. I’d lived in Lark Cove my entire life and never seen this guy before, which meant I’d probably never see him again.
My stomach dropped. Doing the only thing I could think of, I closed my eyes and said a prayer that we’d get a freak July snowstorm and the man would be trapped here for at least a week, preferably without a place to stay other than my house.
“Hey there, Jackson.” My eyes popped open as Dad walked up to the register with his hand extended. “Nice to see you again.”
“You too.” A frenzy of excitement shot through my veins as the two shook hands. “It’s Nate, right?”
“That’s right.” Dad smiled. “My wife, Betty, and I were down at the bar last week.”
“For your anniversary.” Jackson snapped his fingers as he put it together.
“Right again. Are you getting all settled into town?”
“I am. I didn’t have much to move so it made unpacking easy.”
Jackson said something else to Dad, but my heart was beating so hard I couldn’t focus on their conversation.
Jackson. His name was Jackson. And he lived in Lark Cove.
“Willa.”
Jackson and Willa. Willa and Jackson. Our names went together like peanut butter and jelly.
“Willa.”
Maybe people in town would merge us into a nickname. Will-son. Jack-illa. Both were terrible, but I’d think of something better tonight.
“Earth to Willa!”
I flinched, my eyes whipping up. “Huh?”
Dad shook his head and laughed. “Lost in outer space again?”
“Yeah.” Heat crept up my cheeks as I bent to pick up my fallen Snickers. With it in hand, I came out from behind the aisle.
“Jackson, meet my daughter.” Before Dad could finish his introduction, the clerk stole his attention, asking if he wanted his weekly scratch ticket too.
“Hey.” Jackson waved. “I’m Jackson.”
“I’m Willa,” I mumbled. Articulating words was impossible standing in front of him.
“Nice to meet you, Willow.”
“It’s, um . . . Willa.”
But Jackson had already turned away. The clerk had his attention again, joking with both Jackson and Dad that if either won the lottery, he wanted a kickback.
With his purchases in hand, Jackson said good-bye to Dad and went right for the door and pushed outside.
“Ready to go?” Dad asked.
I nodded and handed him my Snickers.
As the clerk rang up my candy bar, Dad’s ticket, a bag of M&M’s and two cans of Coke, I peered outside, hoping to get one last glimpse of Jackson. But with the front windows stacked full of beer boxes and a rotating rack of maps blocking the only other free space, I couldn’t see anything past our car parked right outside the door.
I drummed my fingers on the counter, willing the clerk to make change faster. Finally, he handed Dad a dollar and some coins, and I bolted for the door, stepping into the bright, summer sunshine just in time to see Jackson slide into an old Chevy truck.
“Did you forget something, honey?” Dad appeared at my side, handing me my Snickers and Coke.
“Whoopsie. Sorry, Dad.”
He just laughed. “It’s okay.”
I took my things, then slowly walked toward our car, keeping one eye on Jackson’s truck as it pulled onto the highway. When it disappeared behind a patch of trees, I sighed and resumed normal speed, opening the passenger door and sliding inside.
Luckily for me, Dad didn’t comment on my strange behavior. He just popped the top on his Coke, took a sip and backed us out of the parking lot to go home.
“Um, Dad? Who was that?”
He pulled onto the highway, going the opposite direction of where Jackson had turned. “Who was who?”
“That guy you introduced me to in the gas station. I haven’t seen him around before.” I added that last part hoping I sounded more curious than desperate for information.
“That’s Jackson Page. He just moved to town to work with Hazel down at the bar. I think he’s from New York or New Jersey. I can’t remember.”
“That’s good.” More like freaking fantastic.
Dad gave me a sideways glance. “Is it?”
Uh-oh. Maybe I hadn’t hidden my crush as well as I’d hoped. “Totally!” It came out too loud as I scrambled for a recovery. “It’s, um, good that Hazel has some help. Don’t you think she’s kind of old to be working at the bar all by herself?”
Dad frowned as he turned down the street toward our house. “Old? Hazel isn’t all that much older than me and your mom. But I guess teenagers think anyone past thirty is old.”
I giggled. “Ancient. You’re practically fossils.”
“Ouch.” He clutched his heart, pretending to be hurt as he pulled into our driveway.
“Just kidding.”
Dad smiled. “Try to save part of your candy bar until after dinner.”
“Deal.” I hopped out of the car, escaping inside while Dad went to check on Mom’s progress in her vegetable garden.
I yanked my diary out from underneath my mattress and got comfortable on my bed. Then I tore into my Snickers bar, chewing as I opened to a blank page. My pen flew across the paper, leaving a trail of purple ink as I recounted every second at the gas station. When I was done, I closed the book and clutched it to my chest, smiling at the last line I’d written.
One day, I am going to marry Jackson Page.
I just had to get him to notice me first.
Timid
June 14, 2018
EXCERPT: Tattered
Check out this excerpt from the first book in my all-new Lark Cove series, Tattered!
PROLOGUE
“What can I get for you?” I asked the man across the bar.
He flashed me a straight, white smile. “Macallan 18, if you’ve got it. Double. Neat.”
I nodded and turned to the shelves at my back, glad for the task. I needed a distraction from the heat. He’d turned the hotel bar where I worked into a sauna.
For the last three years, I would have argued that this room was always cold, even at the peak of summer. Even with the heat blasting through the vents, like it was now. But here I stood, sweating like I’d just run to catch the late train.
From the moment this handsome stranger had walked through the door, my heartrate had spiked. Not because of the way his dark hair fell in a soft wave around a part above his left eyebrow. Not because of the expensive suit that hugged his broad shoulders and draped down his long legs.
My heart was thundering because of the air.
He charged the atmosphere with his confident stride. His deep-brown eyes had taken me in with no more than a blink. He exuded class and power and heat.
He’d walked into my bar and claimed it as his.
And I was drawn to him, like shivering bones to a warm blanket.
I guess that was natural. People always wanted what was out of their reach. And this man was so far out of my reach, he might as well be standing on the moon.
He drank whisky that cost twice my hourly wage, while I splurged on cab rides every Saturday night instead of walking home at two in the morning. If my tip jar allowed it, I ate lunch on Wednesdays at the corner diner instead of nuking ramen noodles in my cramped apartment. I was just a bartender, surviving life one lick at a time.
He was probably a corporate raider with the world at his feet.
Still, I couldn’t resist pulling in a deep breath of his Armani cologne as I reached for his whisky on the top shelf.
Even in my mandated heels, it was a stretch to grab the bottle that I’d just cleaned yesterday. It wasn’t uncommon for rich men to stroll in and order our most expensive whisky, but it didn’t happen often enough to avoid a weekly dusting.
“Quiet night?” he asked as I came back to the bar with the bottle.
“Mondays are always slow.” I set out a glass on a black square napkin, then poured him two jiggers.
“Lucky me.” He took the glass. “I get your undivided attention.”
“Yes, you do.” I set the bottle aside, doing my best not to blush. Hopefully I wasn’t sweating through my cheap shirt.
Everything about this man was smooth. Sexy. Even his voice. Definitely the way he licked his lips after taking a sip.
But despite him being my only customer, I stayed quiet as he swirled the amber liquid in its glass. I’d been bartending since I turned twenty-one, and I’d learned these last three years to let the patrons do the talking. No one wanted a bartender who couldn’t shut her mouth—especially in a classy hotel like this. Especially when I was as far from classy as you could get.
My black slacks and white button-up shirt didn’t have a stitch of natural fiber—just a synthetic blend that was uncomfortably affordable. My tattered heels had gotten a new scuff tonight, one I’d have to cover with a Sharpie later.
He swirled his whisky a few more times, his gold cufflink peeking out from underneath his suit jacket. “I’m sure you get this question a lot in your line of work. What’s your drink of choice?”
I smiled. “I do get that question a lot. Normally, I answer with whatever was the first drink I served that day.”
The corner of his mouth curved up. “And today’s?”
“A local IPA.”
His mouth split into a full-blown grin. “What’s the real answer?”
That smile made my heart beat wildly again, sending my temperature up another notch.
“It depends.” I pushed off the bar and walked down to my gun, filling a glass with mostly ice, then water. “I’ve always believed in pairing drinks with the occasion.”
“I’m intrigued.”
I took a sip of my water. “Weddings, obviously champagne.”
“Obviously.” He nodded. “What else?”
“Bachelorette parties require anything fruity. Beer always goes with pizza—it’s one of my drinking laws. Margaritas on Tuesday nights because I don’t work on Wednesdays. And tequila shots if anyone says, ‘We need to talk.’ ”
He chuckled. “What about whisky?”
“I don’t drink whisky.”
“Hmm.” He took a long, slow sip from his glass, then set it down. “That’s a shame. A beautiful woman drinking whisky is my weakness.”
The water glass in my hand bobbled and I nearly spilled it on my apron. I’d heard a lot of pickup lines standing behind this bar, and I’d mastered the art of turning down a man without bruising his ego—or losing his tip. But I’d be a fool to dodge that line.
“Then maybe I’ll give it another try.”
“I’d like that.” He smiled wider as he reached across the bar, his long fingers leading the way. “I’m Logan.”
I placed my hand in his, already lost in the fairy tale. “Thea.”
***
Don't miss Tattered!
Amazon: http://amzn.to/2G9j6B1
iBooks: https://apple.co/2Fk5OOt
B&N: http://bit.ly/2oTnZDv
Kobo: http://bit.ly/2H7eWX5
Tattered
PROLOGUE
“What can I get for you?” I asked the man across the bar.
He flashed me a straight, white smile. “Macallan 18, if you’ve got it. Double. Neat.”
I nodded and turned to the shelves at my back, glad for the task. I needed a distraction from the heat. He’d turned the hotel bar where I worked into a sauna.
For the last three years, I would have argued that this room was always cold, even at the peak of summer. Even with the heat blasting through the vents, like it was now. But here I stood, sweating like I’d just run to catch the late train.
From the moment this handsome stranger had walked through the door, my heartrate had spiked. Not because of the way his dark hair fell in a soft wave around a part above his left eyebrow. Not because of the expensive suit that hugged his broad shoulders and draped down his long legs.
My heart was thundering because of the air.
He charged the atmosphere with his confident stride. His deep-brown eyes had taken me in with no more than a blink. He exuded class and power and heat.
He’d walked into my bar and claimed it as his.
And I was drawn to him, like shivering bones to a warm blanket.
I guess that was natural. People always wanted what was out of their reach. And this man was so far out of my reach, he might as well be standing on the moon.
He drank whisky that cost twice my hourly wage, while I splurged on cab rides every Saturday night instead of walking home at two in the morning. If my tip jar allowed it, I ate lunch on Wednesdays at the corner diner instead of nuking ramen noodles in my cramped apartment. I was just a bartender, surviving life one lick at a time.
He was probably a corporate raider with the world at his feet.
Still, I couldn’t resist pulling in a deep breath of his Armani cologne as I reached for his whisky on the top shelf.
Even in my mandated heels, it was a stretch to grab the bottle that I’d just cleaned yesterday. It wasn’t uncommon for rich men to stroll in and order our most expensive whisky, but it didn’t happen often enough to avoid a weekly dusting.
“Quiet night?” he asked as I came back to the bar with the bottle.
“Mondays are always slow.” I set out a glass on a black square napkin, then poured him two jiggers.
“Lucky me.” He took the glass. “I get your undivided attention.”
“Yes, you do.” I set the bottle aside, doing my best not to blush. Hopefully I wasn’t sweating through my cheap shirt.
Everything about this man was smooth. Sexy. Even his voice. Definitely the way he licked his lips after taking a sip.
But despite him being my only customer, I stayed quiet as he swirled the amber liquid in its glass. I’d been bartending since I turned twenty-one, and I’d learned these last three years to let the patrons do the talking. No one wanted a bartender who couldn’t shut her mouth—especially in a classy hotel like this. Especially when I was as far from classy as you could get.
My black slacks and white button-up shirt didn’t have a stitch of natural fiber—just a synthetic blend that was uncomfortably affordable. My tattered heels had gotten a new scuff tonight, one I’d have to cover with a Sharpie later.
He swirled his whisky a few more times, his gold cufflink peeking out from underneath his suit jacket. “I’m sure you get this question a lot in your line of work. What’s your drink of choice?”
I smiled. “I do get that question a lot. Normally, I answer with whatever was the first drink I served that day.”
The corner of his mouth curved up. “And today’s?”
“A local IPA.”
His mouth split into a full-blown grin. “What’s the real answer?”
That smile made my heart beat wildly again, sending my temperature up another notch.
“It depends.” I pushed off the bar and walked down to my gun, filling a glass with mostly ice, then water. “I’ve always believed in pairing drinks with the occasion.”
“I’m intrigued.”
I took a sip of my water. “Weddings, obviously champagne.”
“Obviously.” He nodded. “What else?”
“Bachelorette parties require anything fruity. Beer always goes with pizza—it’s one of my drinking laws. Margaritas on Tuesday nights because I don’t work on Wednesdays. And tequila shots if anyone says, ‘We need to talk.’ ”
He chuckled. “What about whisky?”
“I don’t drink whisky.”
“Hmm.” He took a long, slow sip from his glass, then set it down. “That’s a shame. A beautiful woman drinking whisky is my weakness.”
The water glass in my hand bobbled and I nearly spilled it on my apron. I’d heard a lot of pickup lines standing behind this bar, and I’d mastered the art of turning down a man without bruising his ego—or losing his tip. But I’d be a fool to dodge that line.
“Then maybe I’ll give it another try.”
“I’d like that.” He smiled wider as he reached across the bar, his long fingers leading the way. “I’m Logan.”
I placed my hand in his, already lost in the fairy tale. “Thea.”
***
Don't miss Tattered!
Amazon: http://amzn.to/2G9j6B1
iBooks: https://apple.co/2Fk5OOt
B&N: http://bit.ly/2oTnZDv
Kobo: http://bit.ly/2H7eWX5
Tattered
April 4, 2018
What's On Your List?
Did you know The Birthday List was based on my own birthday list? Here's how it all got started...
Not long after I graduated college, my husband and I moved to a small town in Northern Montana. Both of us were just starting out in our careers and we each had a mountain of student debt, so we lived frugally for the first few years of our marriage. No destination vacations. No fancy restaurants—a date night at McDonald’s was a treat. No cable television. When we sat in front of the TV, it was to watch the same DVDs we’d watched a hundred times. He watched John Wayne movies, Seinfeld and The Office. I watched Friends on an endless loop.
There’s a Friends episode somewhere in the middle of the series where Phoebe was upset because her villainous, twin sister, Ursula, lied to her about their age. She’s actually a year older than she thought, and Phoebe was devastated because she hadn’t reached the goals she’d set before turning thirty-one. Luckily, her friends all rallied together and helped her check the items off her list.
(Recapping the show isn’t really the point of this blog post, I promise.)
The point is, it was because of that episode that I started my own list. One I’ve kept up since starting it at twenty-five. One I have planned until I reach seventy-five. And one that inspired the premise for The Birthday List.
Like Phoebe’s, my list is broken out by years. (I don’t have a gigantic bucket list, waiting for me to tackle during retirement.) Instead, I set one or two things I want to do before each birthday. And then after each birthday, I write about them in a journal.
What’s on my birthday list?
It has a lot of variety. Those first few years didn’t include trips around the world or lavish purchases. Instead, I added simple things that I’d always wanted to try, such as:
Age 26: Take a martial arts class
Age 27: Learn how to ice skate
Age 28: Run a mile in under seven minutes
Then later years I earmarked for traveling. Things like:
Age 38: Take my kids to Disney World
Age 47: Go to the Sturgis Road Rally
Age 60: See all fifty states
The list has pushed me to do things I wouldn’t have done otherwise. Things I would have put on the back burner, never to make a priority. Some items I’ve simply finished and crossed off the list, never to attempt again. (I’m content running a twelve-minute mile and I know that I’ll never ice skate in the Olympics.)
But other items have changed my life. Ten years after my first karate class, I’m now teaching my son. And because of the list, I wrote a book on a whim and found my dream job.
The birthday list motivates me to make my dreams come true every single year.
So, I’ll leave you with this.
What’s on your list?
***
Don't miss The Birthday List, available now!
Amazon: http://amzn.to/2ENlNr3
iBooks: https://apple.co/2n1oo6W
B&N: http://bit.ly/2DupsKN
Kobo: http://bit.ly/2FWFj2h
The Birthday List
Not long after I graduated college, my husband and I moved to a small town in Northern Montana. Both of us were just starting out in our careers and we each had a mountain of student debt, so we lived frugally for the first few years of our marriage. No destination vacations. No fancy restaurants—a date night at McDonald’s was a treat. No cable television. When we sat in front of the TV, it was to watch the same DVDs we’d watched a hundred times. He watched John Wayne movies, Seinfeld and The Office. I watched Friends on an endless loop.
There’s a Friends episode somewhere in the middle of the series where Phoebe was upset because her villainous, twin sister, Ursula, lied to her about their age. She’s actually a year older than she thought, and Phoebe was devastated because she hadn’t reached the goals she’d set before turning thirty-one. Luckily, her friends all rallied together and helped her check the items off her list.
(Recapping the show isn’t really the point of this blog post, I promise.)
The point is, it was because of that episode that I started my own list. One I’ve kept up since starting it at twenty-five. One I have planned until I reach seventy-five. And one that inspired the premise for The Birthday List.
Like Phoebe’s, my list is broken out by years. (I don’t have a gigantic bucket list, waiting for me to tackle during retirement.) Instead, I set one or two things I want to do before each birthday. And then after each birthday, I write about them in a journal.
What’s on my birthday list?
It has a lot of variety. Those first few years didn’t include trips around the world or lavish purchases. Instead, I added simple things that I’d always wanted to try, such as:
Age 26: Take a martial arts class
Age 27: Learn how to ice skate
Age 28: Run a mile in under seven minutes
Then later years I earmarked for traveling. Things like:
Age 38: Take my kids to Disney World
Age 47: Go to the Sturgis Road Rally
Age 60: See all fifty states
The list has pushed me to do things I wouldn’t have done otherwise. Things I would have put on the back burner, never to make a priority. Some items I’ve simply finished and crossed off the list, never to attempt again. (I’m content running a twelve-minute mile and I know that I’ll never ice skate in the Olympics.)
But other items have changed my life. Ten years after my first karate class, I’m now teaching my son. And because of the list, I wrote a book on a whim and found my dream job.
The birthday list motivates me to make my dreams come true every single year.
So, I’ll leave you with this.
What’s on your list?
***
Don't miss The Birthday List, available now!
Amazon: http://amzn.to/2ENlNr3
iBooks: https://apple.co/2n1oo6W
B&N: http://bit.ly/2DupsKN
Kobo: http://bit.ly/2FWFj2h
The Birthday List
January 18, 2018
EXCERPT: The Bitterroot Inn
The final standalone in the Jamison Valley series, The Bitterroot Inn, is available now! The heroine in this story is a long-standing character in the series and I’m so excited she’s found her happily ever after. Want a sneak peek? Here’s a special excerpt!
PROLOGUE
Hunter
“Is this seat taken, ma’am?”
The elderly woman abandoned the book she’d been reading and looked up. The wrinkles around her eyes deepened with her warm smile. “Not at all, dear. Please sit.”
“Thanks.” I stopped spinning my car keys around my index finger and tucked them into my jeans pocket before sinking into the leather couch and surveying the room.
For a hospital waiting room, the space was especially nice. The chairs across from the leather couch were oversized and upholstered in a high-end woven fabric. The oil paintings on the walls were framed with a mahogany that matched the end tables. The magazines on the center table were current editions and wrinkle-free. This was the nicest waiting room I’d ever seen, which was saying something, because I’d spent my fair share of time in hospitals—though not in maternity wards. Expectant grandparents, aunts and uncles could be trusted with leather and glass-top coffee tables. Unlike the emergency room I’d been in three days ago, waiting rooms in this Bozeman maternity ward probably didn’t see gushing wounds or projectile vomiting.
“What brings you here?” the elderly woman asked.
An innocent question. Would she take back her seat invitation if I told her the truth?
Probably.
I smiled and went with a vague response. “Oh, just waiting around for good news like everyone else. What about you?”
“My granddaughter is having her first baby. My first great-grandbaby.” Her eyes sparkled as she turned them down the hall, where her granddaughter was likely knees up with a doctor perched between her legs.
“Congratulations. Is she having a girl or a boy?”
“A girl.” She smiled but shook her head. “You young people these days leave nothing up to chance with your ultrasounds. I had four babies and each one was a surprise.”
“Well, I don’t have children but I happen to agree with you. I’d want it to be a surprise.”
She patted my forearm. “Good for you.”
At the elevator’s ding, our conversation stopped and we both looked to the silver doors, waiting for them to split open. I tensed and held my breath, hoping that the reason for my hospital visit wasn’t about to walk right in and let me ruin her special day.
My fists dug into my thighs as the elevator doors started to part. What the fuck was I even doing here? How had I let myself get dragged into doing this? I hated my goddamn life right now.
A man came out of the elevator first, ducking his head as he stepped onto the floor. His baseball cap and dark beard did little to hide his furrowed eyebrows and the worry around his mouth.
For a second I relaxed my hands, thinking he was alone, until one of his arms swung back to help a woman out of the elevator. His wide mass had hidden her from me.
Was that her?
No. It couldn’t be her. Not her. Please don’t let that be her.
Because this woman was a dream. An angel standing in the hallway of a hospital.
Her bright-blond hair framed her delicate and flawless face like a halo. Her smile was full of straight white teeth underneath soft pink lips. Her eyes would be too big on most faces, but because they were so perfectly placed atop her high cheekbones, they were her best feature.
“Beau,” the woman said, pulling back on the man’s arm. “Will you relax and slow down?”
He didn’t stop moving toward the nurses’ desk, tugging her along. “This is not the time to slow down, Maisy.”
Fuck me. It was her. The breath I’d been holding rushed out so fast my chest caved.
“Look.” Maisy wriggled her fingers out of Beau’s meaty grip and stopped by the doorway to the waiting room. “This is where we part ways. This is your room.” She pointed to an open chair across from my couch. “And I’ll go get checked into mine. I’ll text you in a bit.”
He frowned. “You’re having a baby. I’m not staying in the waiting room.”
“Well, you’re not coming into my room. I love you, but there are things you are not going to see. That includes me in a hospital gown with my feet in stirrups.”
“You’re not doing this alone, Maze.”
“Mom will be here soon and—ooh. Owie!” She bent over her pregnant belly and hissed out a long breath through clamped teeth.
My legs started to push off the floor but I stopped before I could rise from my seat. It wasn’t my job to comfort her through a contraction. She had her brother and her family for that. I was just a stranger.
Still, I wanted the job. I wanted to be the man rubbing her back and kissing her hair. I wanted to hold her hand and let her squeeze it with all her might. I wanted to tell her how beautiful she was as her baby made its way into the world.
How fucked up was that?
I’d seen her for the first time just a minute ago, but one look and all I could think about was making her mine. Two minutes ago, I would have told you that shit didn’t happen in real life. Men like me didn’t believe in love at first sight.
Two minutes ago, I was a chump.
“Are you okay?” Beau asked when Maisy stood straight.
She looked down at her belly, rubbing the sides as a smile lit up her entire face. “I’m okay. It doesn’t feel great but it just means he’ll be here soon.”
“Let me come with you to get checked in. Please?” Beau asked, and when she nodded, he led her toward the nurses’ desk and out of my sight.
My jaw tightened as realization set in.
I was here on a fool’s errand.
That woman loved her unborn child and would never give him up.
The elderly woman at my side said something I didn’t catch. So caught up with Maisy, I’d forgotten I wasn’t alone on this couch.
“What was that?” I asked.
“I said I don’t envy her,” she repeated. “If that baby takes after its father at all, she’s in for a rough delivery. He’s as big as a mountain. For her sake, I hope she gets the drugs.”
I shook my head and mumbled, “He’s not the father.”
“Pardon?”
I didn’t repeat myself. Instead, I stood and walked out of the waiting room as quickly as I could, going straight for the stairs so I wouldn’t have to wait for the elevator. The second the stairwell door slammed tight behind me, I pulled out my phone from my pocket. I pressed the most recent name in the call log and held the phone tight to my ear as I bounded down the steps two at a time.
“She’s keeping the baby. Leave her be.”
PROLOGUE
Hunter
“Is this seat taken, ma’am?”
The elderly woman abandoned the book she’d been reading and looked up. The wrinkles around her eyes deepened with her warm smile. “Not at all, dear. Please sit.”
“Thanks.” I stopped spinning my car keys around my index finger and tucked them into my jeans pocket before sinking into the leather couch and surveying the room.
For a hospital waiting room, the space was especially nice. The chairs across from the leather couch were oversized and upholstered in a high-end woven fabric. The oil paintings on the walls were framed with a mahogany that matched the end tables. The magazines on the center table were current editions and wrinkle-free. This was the nicest waiting room I’d ever seen, which was saying something, because I’d spent my fair share of time in hospitals—though not in maternity wards. Expectant grandparents, aunts and uncles could be trusted with leather and glass-top coffee tables. Unlike the emergency room I’d been in three days ago, waiting rooms in this Bozeman maternity ward probably didn’t see gushing wounds or projectile vomiting.
“What brings you here?” the elderly woman asked.
An innocent question. Would she take back her seat invitation if I told her the truth?
Probably.
I smiled and went with a vague response. “Oh, just waiting around for good news like everyone else. What about you?”
“My granddaughter is having her first baby. My first great-grandbaby.” Her eyes sparkled as she turned them down the hall, where her granddaughter was likely knees up with a doctor perched between her legs.
“Congratulations. Is she having a girl or a boy?”
“A girl.” She smiled but shook her head. “You young people these days leave nothing up to chance with your ultrasounds. I had four babies and each one was a surprise.”
“Well, I don’t have children but I happen to agree with you. I’d want it to be a surprise.”
She patted my forearm. “Good for you.”
At the elevator’s ding, our conversation stopped and we both looked to the silver doors, waiting for them to split open. I tensed and held my breath, hoping that the reason for my hospital visit wasn’t about to walk right in and let me ruin her special day.
My fists dug into my thighs as the elevator doors started to part. What the fuck was I even doing here? How had I let myself get dragged into doing this? I hated my goddamn life right now.
A man came out of the elevator first, ducking his head as he stepped onto the floor. His baseball cap and dark beard did little to hide his furrowed eyebrows and the worry around his mouth.
For a second I relaxed my hands, thinking he was alone, until one of his arms swung back to help a woman out of the elevator. His wide mass had hidden her from me.
Was that her?
No. It couldn’t be her. Not her. Please don’t let that be her.
Because this woman was a dream. An angel standing in the hallway of a hospital.
Her bright-blond hair framed her delicate and flawless face like a halo. Her smile was full of straight white teeth underneath soft pink lips. Her eyes would be too big on most faces, but because they were so perfectly placed atop her high cheekbones, they were her best feature.
“Beau,” the woman said, pulling back on the man’s arm. “Will you relax and slow down?”
He didn’t stop moving toward the nurses’ desk, tugging her along. “This is not the time to slow down, Maisy.”
Fuck me. It was her. The breath I’d been holding rushed out so fast my chest caved.
“Look.” Maisy wriggled her fingers out of Beau’s meaty grip and stopped by the doorway to the waiting room. “This is where we part ways. This is your room.” She pointed to an open chair across from my couch. “And I’ll go get checked into mine. I’ll text you in a bit.”
He frowned. “You’re having a baby. I’m not staying in the waiting room.”
“Well, you’re not coming into my room. I love you, but there are things you are not going to see. That includes me in a hospital gown with my feet in stirrups.”
“You’re not doing this alone, Maze.”
“Mom will be here soon and—ooh. Owie!” She bent over her pregnant belly and hissed out a long breath through clamped teeth.
My legs started to push off the floor but I stopped before I could rise from my seat. It wasn’t my job to comfort her through a contraction. She had her brother and her family for that. I was just a stranger.
Still, I wanted the job. I wanted to be the man rubbing her back and kissing her hair. I wanted to hold her hand and let her squeeze it with all her might. I wanted to tell her how beautiful she was as her baby made its way into the world.
How fucked up was that?
I’d seen her for the first time just a minute ago, but one look and all I could think about was making her mine. Two minutes ago, I would have told you that shit didn’t happen in real life. Men like me didn’t believe in love at first sight.
Two minutes ago, I was a chump.
“Are you okay?” Beau asked when Maisy stood straight.
She looked down at her belly, rubbing the sides as a smile lit up her entire face. “I’m okay. It doesn’t feel great but it just means he’ll be here soon.”
“Let me come with you to get checked in. Please?” Beau asked, and when she nodded, he led her toward the nurses’ desk and out of my sight.
My jaw tightened as realization set in.
I was here on a fool’s errand.
That woman loved her unborn child and would never give him up.
The elderly woman at my side said something I didn’t catch. So caught up with Maisy, I’d forgotten I wasn’t alone on this couch.
“What was that?” I asked.
“I said I don’t envy her,” she repeated. “If that baby takes after its father at all, she’s in for a rough delivery. He’s as big as a mountain. For her sake, I hope she gets the drugs.”
I shook my head and mumbled, “He’s not the father.”
“Pardon?”
I didn’t repeat myself. Instead, I stood and walked out of the waiting room as quickly as I could, going straight for the stairs so I wouldn’t have to wait for the elevator. The second the stairwell door slammed tight behind me, I pulled out my phone from my pocket. I pressed the most recent name in the call log and held the phone tight to my ear as I bounded down the steps two at a time.
“She’s keeping the baby. Leave her be.”
