Excerpts – Elizabeth Barone

Arsonist’s Lullaby, Chapter 1

No way this is legal. It’s my first thought as I pull up to the thrift shop where I’m allegedly buying a used stroller. I torched my relationship with my controlling baby daddy, and I’ll do anything for this baby—even arson for the mafia.

Lucy

There’s no way this is legal. It’s my first thought as I pull up to where I’m supposed to pick up a refurbished stroller and car seat system. By all accounts, the shop is empty. Dark windows stained with dust face the street, and I’m the only car parallel parked out front. I knew it seemed odd that a children’s thrift shop would be in Woodbury, of all places—a town where there are more antique and health food stores than people. People have money around here and just buy their travel systems new on Prime. Plus I’m pretty sure car seat regulations don’t even allow for “refurbishing,” or whatever it is this shop does. But I’m desperate.

I did it to myself. I could be one of those suburban moms with the latest, most expensive baby gadgets if I hadn’t broken up with my baby daddy when he proposed. I’m certifiably insane for even thinking of leaving a man who throws money at every problem with barely a thought. The thing is, I think he saw me as a problem, or he would eventually if I married him. I didn’t want to be his trailer park teacher turned housewife, even it came with a perfect white SUV to drive around our perfect five kids. I didn’t want to be a mom. I became a teacher to give kids like me a safe space from their monsters, to keep kids like my cousin Cliff out of prison. When Benjamin proposed, I knew if I said yes, next he’d ask me to have a baby, and soon after that, quit my job. He’d tell me what to wear, which PTA moms to befriend, and how to spend my “allowance.” Worst of all, I’d be bored.

So of course, when I said no, a few weeks later, a pregnancy test said yes.

I didn’t want my baby to grow up in a family like mine, full of abusers and enablers. I barely made it out of childhood, and poverty was the least of my traumas. I didn’t want her to grow up under Benjamin’s thumb, either.

I needed that travel system because it converted from a car seat to a stroller and was lightweight and foolproof enough that I could do it all myself. That overpriced brand was actually a beacon of freedom, a way to raise a baby I hadn’t planned in the environment of my choice: mine.

The place is probably closed, anyway. All I have to do is try the door, admit defeat, and get back in my car. Easy. Then I can go back to doomscrolling through more fake secondhand baby paraphernalia in the comfort of AC. Pregnancy’s got me sweating in places I never knew I could sweat, and doesn’t play well with the late summer heatwave we’re in. But when I turn the knob and push the door, it opens with a long, dusty creak.

The shop is even emptier than it looked from the street. A single brand new travel system sits in the middle of the small store, still unopened. Part of me is relieved. It fell off a truck, much like most of the things from my childhood: chicken cutlets, satellite cable, my adopted sister Olivia. At least I know it’ll be safe for my baby.

“Hello?” I run a finger over the box and leave a trail in the dust. The factory seal is unbroken, the box isn’t even dented. I came with exactly enough cash, so this should be quick. I won’t even have to tell my sister or cousin how I got something so expensive. I’ll wrap it and pretend someone from work bought it for my shower—a Sip and See my sister started organizing late because I waited until the eleventh hour to tell them I’m pregnant. We had enough going on without me adding any more of my problems.

I know my fears are unfounded. Olivia and Cliff are my people, the only people I need, really. Besides, they were busy keeping their own secret: banging each other. They think I don’t know, like I didn’t figure it out the night they left me at a dive bar for over an hour to “get cigarettes.” Olivia came back with that look in her eye, the addict floating from her fix. Cliff just looked guilty.

Cliff and I are cousins, but Olivia isn’t biologically related to us at all, so it’s fine. It’ll burn out just like every other boy toy Olivia has brought home, leaving my cousin—who’s a big ol’ softie hidden that tall, dark, and scary disguise—lovesick. I’m not looking forward to the fallout. Cliff’s touch her and die vibes have always gotten him into trouble. The last time he tried saving someone hopeless, he went to prison.

I thought it was the end of it this summer. I was even a little bummed when they split. They make a cute couple and when they’re ignoring that they both want very different things, they’re good together. When they’re on the outs, everything in their vicinity is at risk. But I can’t get distracted making sure Olivia doesn’t kill Cliff, not when the baby inside me is growing faster than I imagined.

“Hello!” I call again, this time louder, more insistent. Everyone has always referred to me as “fiery,” and it’s not just because of my curly red hair. Growing up the way I did, I learned quick that monsters tend to leave crazy be. It’s vulnerable and meek that they target.

Maybe if I’d learned a little sooner, Cliff wouldn’t have gone to prison.

“Yeah, yeah.” A man covered in tattoos strolls out of the back, a cigarette clamped between his teeth. He rakes dirty blond hair streaked with silver and red back from his face.

I look pointedly at the box, down at the small and heavy watermelon I’m hauling around, and back to him.

He drops the butt onto the floor and grinds it out with a steel-toed boot, staring at me with pale blues. He rubs his beard, those eyes searing into me.

My pulse quickens and a fluttering flickers low inside me, and it’s not fear. It’s hormones. I’ve officially reached the horny stage of pregnancy, and it’s insatiable. Doesn’t matter which toy I use or which hand. The second I come, my body demands more, now, again. I’m worse than a teenage boy.

The man taps the box, drawing my attention. “Need help getting this loaded?”

I venture closer, telling myself it’s so I can pass him the money. There’s no cash register, so I guess we’re doing this like a drug deal. But closer is immediately too close, my pupils dilating and my heart racing as I inhale him. He smells like smoke and leather and ash, but there’s something sweet in there, too, sweet enough that I lean in and take a big whiff.

He steps back. “Are… are you smelling me?”

“No,” I sputter. “Just checking to make sure the box doesn’t smell like weed.”

“You won’t draw any attention,” he says, lifting the box and striding toward the door. “False bottom, the package is inside. You’re just gonna drive to the drop. I’ll tail you a few cars behind. Ready to roll?”

He frowns at the door and at me, and I realize I’m supposed to open it for him.

“Drop? Tail?” I repeat, hurrying after him.

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“Hell, Established 1958”

He felt certain that something bad had happened or was already happening. His eyebrows furrowed. He tried to put the feeling in his gut into words, but it danced far out of reach before he could coax it into something tangible.

Horror just might be the love of my life. I started my career writing, submitting, and publishing it. I used to make my horror anthology The Last Minute Before Midnight available around Halloween every year. This spooky season, I hope you enjoy these tales for free, right here on my website.

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Bruce Dean lost his job on the evening of the annual Halloween party. He could just hear his father: “You’re good for nothing, son. You should have gone to college.” He took the long way home from the old stamp mill and stopped at the town package store. Since he didn’t have to work in the morning, a few drinks at the party wouldn’t hurt. As he paid for the bottle of whiskey, his father’s voice continued: “How are you going to provide for your family, when the time comes? You need an education.”

“Why so glum, son?” Pat, the owner of Cerrito Package, asked as he bagged the whiskey and slid it across the counter. “Say, you’re off pretty early.”

“I’m just on my lunch, sir,” Bruce mumbled. “I’m picking this up for the Weatherby party.” He turned to leave the store.

“Lots of airplanes and ‘copters flying overhead today,” Pat remarked as the buzz of a plane flying overhead drowned out the sound from the television set in the corner. “I heard they’re doing some kind of testing out there.”

Bruce shrugged. “I should get going.” He tipped his cap and left the store, the bells attached to the top of the door jingling behind him.

The sky above him hovered bright and blue, completely absent of clouds—a perfect fall day. When his supervisor had called him into the office, Bruce already knew why. The mill owner had hired too many people during the economic boom after the war, and rumors about layoffs had been circling the mill for months. Most of Cerrito Del Fe’s people worked at the mill or in the mines. Harold, Bruce’s father, forbade him to work in the mines.

“Your best bet,” his father had told him years and years earlier, “is to work in the mill part-time during the summer and go to school full-time. Get out of this dusty old town.”

Bruce climbed into his 1940 Studebaker Champion. Turning the key in the ignition, he pulled the driver’s side door closed behind him. The Studebaker sputtered to life. Even with all of the money he had saved so far, he would never be able to fix the old car or buy one that wasn’t almost twenty years old.

As he got closer to home, he heard another plane flying low overhead, but barely gave it more than a second’s thought. Pat had been right about the number of aircraft flying over Cerrito, but it hardly mattered to Bruce—unless the people flying them wanted to give him a job, he surmised. He pulled into the driveway of his parents’ small home and turned the coughing Studebaker off.

The neighborhood sat, quiet as a cemetery after a funeral. His father wouldn’t be home from the men’s emporium for at least another hour. Harold couldn’t work more than five hours at a time since the mining accident. Bruce’s mother Nancy worked full-time as a secretary, but came home during her lunch hour. He took a deep breath, got out of the Studebaker, and went inside.

“Brucie,” Nancy said, drying a plate with a ragged dish towel. “What are you doing home?” She put the plate down, eyes searching his face.

He sat down and poured himself a cup of coffee from the carafe on the table. Even though his mother sat behind a desk and typed memos all day, her ankles were swollen to twice their size. Hot guilt washed over his face. He put the cup of coffee down, hands shaking. “I might as well just tell you,” he said, sighing. “Stan laid me off, Ma. He gave me a good severance, but he laid me off all the same.”

“Oh, Brucie,” his mother said. She rubbed his back and shoulders the way she had done when he was little and had the flu. “Well,” she said, sitting down in the chair next to him, “look at it this way. You can go to school now. I’m sure you can still use that scholarship—”

“I don’t want to go to school, Ma,” Bruce said. “How many times are we going to have this conversation?”

His mother shook her head at him. “Brucie, your father had nothing when he lost his job—”

“I have nothing now, Ma!” Bruce removed his cap and put it back on, adjusting it. “I just can’t see myself sitting behind a desk in some stuffy office every day for the rest of my life. It’s not for me.” He tucked his hands into the pockets of his jackaree.

“Oh, Bruce,” Nancy said, wringing her hands. “What are you going to do? Your father’s not going to stand for you sitting around the house.”

“I’ve got some money. I wanted to wait and save up more, but I think I’ll just go tomorrow,” he said.

His mother pressed her lips together and sucked them in a little the way that she did every time she had an opinion but didn’t want to express it. “You know what your father is going to say about that,” she said. She stood. “I have to get back to the office. Your father will be home soon. I think it would be best if you tell him you quit your job so that you can start school in the spring.” She kissed his forehead, stooping a little.

Bruce shook his head. “Are you saying that you want me to lie to him?”

“He only wants what’s best for you, you know,” she said as she gathered her things. She walked out the front door without a single glance back at him.

 The phone rang, cutting off Harold mid-sentence. Bruce’s shoulders sagged in relief. He couldn’t stand one more minute of his father lecturing him. He was an adult. He should be able to do whatever he wanted, without having to get his father’s approval.

“Brucie, it’s for you,” his mother said, covering the mouthpiece.

“Who is that?” Harold asked.

Bruce stood from the kitchen table and took the phone from his mother. “Hello?” he said.

“Brucie!” Calvin sang from the other end. “Are you still picking me up for the party, or should I start walking?”

“Aw, Calvin, I’m sorry,” Bruce said. “I completely forgot. I’m on my way right now.” He handed the phone back to his mother and she gently laid it back in its cradle. Bruce grabbed his keys and jackaree.

“Where are you going, boy?” Harold asked. “I’m not done with you.”

Bruce sighed. “I already know what you’re going to say. I’ve heard it a thousand times. Tonight, I’m going to this party, and tomorrow morning, I’m heading to Las Vegas.” He looked his father in the eyes as he spoke, even though he wasn’t sure that he meant it. A moment later, he walked out the front door and started up the Studebaker.

 “Did you make it to Pat’s?” Calvin asked as he slid into the Studebaker. Bruce held up the bottle of whiskey and his best friend whooped. Bruce tried to smile, but the corners of his mouth remained stiff. “What’s eating you?” Calvin asked.

Darkness slowly settled over Cerrito like ashes floating in a fireplace. Bruce shivered, despite the double lining that his mother had sewn into the jackaree. He shook his head. “I’m just tired, I guess,” he told his friend.

“I know what will cheer you up,” Calvin said. “Margaret Cox asked me if you were going tonight, and I told her that you would pick her up.”

“Why did you do that?” Bruce asked. His voice sounded flat to his own ears. Guilt writhed through him. If he couldn’t even manage to play the role of embarrassed friend, he wouldn’t be able to fake enjoying the party.

“You don’t like her anymore?” Calvin asked, his eyebrows knitting together.

The Studebaker hit a bump in the row. The tops of their heads slammed into the roof. “Ow,” they said in unison. Grinning at Calvin in the dim light from the street, Bruce felt a little like his younger self. He wondered when he had suddenly gained so many responsibilities and worries. “It’s not that I don’t like her,” he said, trying to explain his bad mood. “I just don’t feel like very good company tonight.”

Calvin clapped him on the shoulder. “What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t have a cure for you?” He removed the bottle of whiskey from its paper bag and twisted off the cap. Then he passed it to Bruce. “Have a shot. It’s on the house.”

“On the house,” Bruce said. He snorted. “All right, then.” He took the bottle and slugged back a couple of shots. Then he passed it back to Calvin.

“Give it a minute,” Calvin said. He took a shot of his own.

Bruce nodded. He stopped the Studebaker and made a U-turn. Then he headed to Margaret’s.

 Bruce stared up the long driveway at the front door. The Studebaker idled in front of the house. Sweat dampened his palms.

“All right, now go ring the bell,” Calvin said, nudging him.

“Me?” Bruce shook his head. The world around him felt warm. Even the incessant droning of helicopters flying back and forth over the town felt soothing, lulling him into relaxation. “You invited her,” he told Calvin. “You go ring the bell.”

“I’m not the one who’s going to sleep with her. Besides, I’ve got my eye on Judy.”

“Judy Weatherby?” Bruce laughed. “She could buy your house right out from underneath you.”

Calvin shrugged. “Are you going to ring Margaret’s bell, or are you going to keep her waiting?”

“You’re right,” Bruce said, opening his door. “I can’t keep her waiting.” He climbed out of the Studebaker, swaying slightly as his feet touched the ground. A smile danced on his lips. More heat thrummed through him. He strode up the driveway to the front door. His footsteps felt light on the concrete. Perhaps, he mused as he climbed the porch steps, he had overdone the shots. As he neared the door, music floated to him on the air through an open window.

Taking a deep breath, Bruce pressed the doorbell button. His fingertips felt slick against it. He swallowed hard. He wondered if he should have waited to start drinking.

The door opened and Margaret’s father stared down at Bruce with raised eyebrows. “Can I help you, son?”

Bruce opened his mouth, but no words came out. Mr. Cox crossed his arms. Bruce’s heart thudded in his chest. He thought about telling Margaret’s father that he had the wrong address. He could just run back to the Studebaker and take off. The engine was still idling.

“Daddy,” Margaret said, peeking from behind Mr. Cox. She winked at Bruce. “He’s my date.”

“Let the boy speak for himself, Margaret. Now,” Mr. Cox said, his eyes boring into Bruce. “Can I help you?”

Bruce cleared his throat. “I’m here to take Margaret to the costume party,” he stammered. Mr. Cox glared down at him. “Sir,” he added. He swallowed hard.
Mr. Cox’s eyes felt like hot fire pokers drilling into him. “You’ll have her back before curfew.”

Margaret put a hand on her father’s arm. “Daddy, I’m almost twenty.”

Mr. Cox never took his gaze off of Bruce. “You’ll have her back before curfew,” he repeated.

“Yes, sir,” Bruce said, trying to speak so that Mr. Cox couldn’t smell his breath. He wished he had never started drinking. Sweat trickled down his back.

“All right, then,” Mr. Cox said. Bruce stood straighter, his jaw dropping open slightly. “Have a good time, kids.” He moved out of the way.

Margaret kissed his cheek. “Thanks, Daddy,” she called over her shoulder to her father.

Still gaping, Bruce felt Margaret’s small, warm hand slip into his. She pulled him away from the house and led him toward the Studebaker.

“Let’s go before he changes his mind,” she whispered.

“Goodnight, sir!” Bruce called. Calvin hopped out of the front seat, diving into the back. He rested his elbows on the front seats. Bruce held the passenger side door open for Margaret.

“Thank you,” she said. She glanced back at the house. Mr. Cox still stood in the doorway. Bruce whistled and got in on the driver’s side. “Hurry,” Margaret said. She giggled.

Bruce pulled away from the curb.

“Do you mind if I turn the radio on?” she asked, reaching for the dial.

Bruce shook his head. She switched it on. A Buddy Holly song filled the Studebaker, temporarily breaking the Halloween music marathon. Bruce loosened his grip on the steering wheel and actually looked at Margaret. She wore her blonde hair in short, loose curls and Victory rolls. Red lipstick painted her luscious, plump lips. She had drawn a fake mole on her cheek.

“Do you like it?” she asked.

Bruce nodded. Heat flushed the back of his neck. He imagined himself kissing her, his hands on her thighs underneath her short dress. “Marilyn Monroe, right?” he stammered. He wished he had put together his own costume.

Margaret nodded. She moved closer to him. “I’d like to say that I’m really glad you invited me,” she said. “I’ve been so busy with exams and I was hoping you would ask me—”

“Turn the radio up,” Calvin interrupted.

Bruce glared at him using the rearview mirror. Static crackled over the announcer’s voice. He wondered when the music had stopped. He turned the volume up.

“Reports… nuclear testing… It’s unclear… Reports of helicopters… military sighted outside of town… repeat, not an attack but… fallout test…” The static rose and completely drowned out the announcer. Then the broadcast went dead.

Heart thudding in his chest, Bruce pulled the Studebaker over onto the shoulder of the road. Several other cars had pulled to the side. Some people stood next to their vehicles, gazing up at the sky, their faces perplexed. Planes buzzed overhead.

Bruce climbed out of the Studebaker and looked up. “Those look even closer than the ones this afternoon,” he said. His voice caught in his throat. He swallowed hard and tried to moisten his dry mouth.

“Awfully close,” Calvin agreed, climbing out behind him. He tapped his fingers on the roof of the Studebaker. “What do you think is going on? Why did the program cut out?”

“Maybe it’s some sort of Halloween prank,” Margaret said from the other side of the Studebaker.

Bruce laughed, but it sounded strained to his own ears. His stomach tightened. The small hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He shivered. He felt certain that something bad had happened or was already happening. His eyebrows furrowed. He tried to put the feeling in his gut into words, but it danced far out of reach before he could coax it into something tangible. His shoulders relaxed slightly. Maybe Margaret was right. “Gee, I never thought of that,” he said to Margaret.

Calvin shook his head. “Look at all of us. I can’t believe we fell for—”

A roaring sound drowned out their laughter. Seconds later, a blast of bright white heat roiled through Cerrito. Houses along the streets exploded. Trees blew over. The blast rocked everything to the north, blowing it hard. Then, as if undecided, everything blew in the opposite direction.

The wind disappeared as abruptly as it came.

Only skeletons of houses remained. Cars sat like silent tombstones. Dust fell to the ground like flakes of snow. The doors to the Studebaker stood open, its windows blown out. Burnt husks lay beside the car, their features unintelligible. The scent of burning flesh filled the air.

A mushroom shaped cloud hung over the town. Thirty minutes later, soldiers dressed in black with gas masks strapped to their faces rushed into what remained of the town.

 Bruce woke up to the clanging of his alarm, his body drenched in sweat. He felt as if he had just dreamed something terrible, but already the details were far out of reach. He sat up and turned the alarm off. Then he headed into the bathroom to shower for work. Things at the mill were tense, and the threat of being laid off hung over his head constantly. As the hot water sluiced over his head and down his body, though, he began to relax.

It was, after all, Halloween, and he and his best friend Calvin had a party to go to, no matter what happened.

Photo by Dan Meyers on Unsplash

“The Corpse in the Tree”

The corpse stared at the map sitting on the ground in front of him, then folded it and put it in his pocket. He did a double-take at the clothes he wore and nodded to himself. The devil always took care of him—in return. For a moment, a flicker of his former life came to him, then disappeared like a candle flame in the wind. He shook his head and got to work.

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He lay underneath an uprooted tree, curled into a twisted ball of shriveled limbs and paper skin. He had forgotten his name long ago, watching the years ooze by with hollow, sagging eyes that could no longer blink. He spent his nights weaving himself further into the roots of the oak, and his days watching the legs of children walking to school. Sometimes, if he got lucky, a couple would use his oak’s trunk as a thrusting post. On a bad day, a bum used his tree as a toilet. Luckily, his sense of smell had long ago deteriorated. The acid in their urine only burned what remained of his skin. He relished in the last awareness of being alive that belonged to him. Even the laughter hurt, though, flakes of skin soughing off as the corners of his wrinkled and dried mouth moved.

Sometimes, he absorbed more than just kidney waste. The extra proteins and vitamins stored themselves in the tissues of his flesh and gave him a little color. Sometimes, if there was enough, he could blink for a few hours. During those times, he slept, hoping that he would be able to open his eyes when he woke, or that he wouldn’t wake at all.

On a cool autumn night—he only knew this because of the colored leaves that blew into his shelter—he realized he could no longer move. He and the old oak had finally become one. He smiled on the inside. It won’t be long now, he hoped. A glow filtered in through the roots and he welcomed its light.

“I have one last task for you,” a rough voice said, cutting through the fog of his thoughts.

And look, the corpse thought. I’m hallucinating.

“Oh, knock it off,” the visitor said, poking his head through the roots. Hunched over to fit, he only slightly resembled a human. Coarse black hair covered his olive skin, a fur coat for his body. Coal black eyes bore into the corpse. Silver rings on his fingers glinted in the moonlight. Slowly, the corpse remembered who his visitor was. “You’re just as alive as I am.” The devil laughed.

The corpse strained his eyes, staring at the craggy face.

“Yep, it’s me,” the devil said. “Lost your tongue?”

The corpse moaned, a dry creaking echoing through his throat.

The devil rolled his eyes. “You’ve really let yourself go, man.” He snapped his fingers and the roots of the tree loosened, spitting the corpse from their clutches. “I think I’m gonna call you Squishy,” he said, laughing as the corpse bounced onto the soft earth. “Or maybe Pepper, since you look like a dead cat.” He dragged him out from under the tree and leaned him against its trunk. From his coat he produced a flask. “Whiskey,” he said, pressing it to the corpse’s lips. “Drink up.”

The honey colored liquid flowed down Pepper’s throat, warming his vocal cords and reviving his organs. As he finished the last sip, he blinked and looked down at his hands. They were still thin and boney, but bore a more red hue—coloring him like the passersby that sexed and pissed on his tree. He smiled.

“That’s better,” the devil said. He lit a cigarette and held out the packet to the corpse.

The corpse shook his head. “Those’ll kill you,” he said.

The devil tipped back his head and laughed, its echo booming through the forest. “You’re all right, Pepper.” He sat down next to the corpse and smoked for another moment before looking at the dead man. “Go on. Ask me.”

Pepper shook his head. “If you think I can do it, that’s all the answer I need. I want to know how to die, though,” he said.

“All in time, my good friend. Do this thing for me and I will give you the answer to your question.” The devil pulled a rolled up parchment from his coat and unraveled it in the grass. “This is a map of the city,” he said. “It’s a lot different from back in your day.”

Pepper only shrugged. He had assumed as much. People got restless. Things changed. It was a part of life.

The devil poked a finger at a red square on the map. “This dick’s got Frank’s daughter dancing for him. You remember Frank, don’t you?” When the corpse said nothing, the devil continued. “Take care of this for me and I’ll tell you how you can end your suffering.” The devil stood. “I’ll see you in the morning. Happy Halloween.” He disappeared.

The corpse stared at the map sitting on the ground in front of him, then folded it and put it in his pocket. He did a double-take at the clothes he wore and nodded to himself. The devil always took care of him. For a moment, a flicker of his former life came to him, then disappeared like a candle flame in the wind. He shook his head and clambered to his feet.

The place was only a few blocks away. The corpse caught a cab and, when the cab driver announced his fare, was not surprised to find a wallet in his back pocket. When he arrived at the location—a squat building with a flashing sign declaring live nudes—he was also unsurprised to find a driver’s license in his wallet declaring him well over age for the establishment. The name on the ID read Stephen Steele. He tasted it in his thoughts, but nothing about the name felt familiar. The nickname that the devil gave him did just fine. The guard at the door—a man as squat and solid as the building he allowed admittance to—waved the corpse in and took the next man’s license.

Pepper stood in the entrance, his newly revived sense of hearing cringing as the sound pounding out of the speakers assaulted the delicate bones in his ears. His stomach twisted and turned, and for a moment he thought he might be sick before he could even start his mission.

“Hey there, sugar,” a honey sweet voice purred in his ear. “Shot?” Pepper turned and blinked, his eyes taking in her sleek waxed and oiled body, clad only in a few triangles of cloth that, in his opinion, did not pass for a bikini. Yet no one seemed to care and, as he glanced around the room, he realized the others girls wore even less. His eyes widened and he took the shot that she pressed into his hand, tipping his head back as he drank.

“Tequila,” he growled, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “How about some whiskey?”

She laughed and took the empty glass from him. “We just ran out,” she said.

Pepper snarled. “What kind of place runs out of whiskey?” He rolled up his sleeves and glanced around the room again. “Does a girl named Claudia work here?” The name came naturally to him, and he wondered what else had been in the devil’s whiskey.

The shot girl shook her head, bouncing her curls. “I don’t know no Claudia. All the girls here have nicknames.”

Pepper gave her a nod and strode away. He passed the stage and moved toward the bar. He snuck looks at the stage as he passed. A girl hung from a shiny metal pole in the center of the stage by her legs. Another girl licked her stomach. He grumbled and marched up to the bartender, a muscular blond man with piercing blue eyes. “Give me something, anything, just not that tequila,” he said.

The bartender grinned and handed him a cold beer.

As he sipped, the corpse leaned against the bar counter and checked out the room again. “Do you know the girls here?”

The bartender smiled and flexed his muscles. “Depends on who’s asking.”

“My buddy Frank’s wondering about his daughter, Claudia. Wondering how she’s doing.” The corpse gulped down the rest of the beer. He sneered as he set the bottle on the counter. “This is more water than beer. Gimme something with bite.”

The bartender cocked his head, one eyebrow raised. “You know Frank,” he said as he poured a glass of thick and dark beer.

Pepper let the beer flow down his throat. It tasted better than the other beer, but wasn’t quite right. He wondered whether all of the “I know lots of people,” he said.

The music softened slightly and a voice boomed over the speakers. “Now get ready, gentlemen, for the crazy, classy, sassy Diamond!”

A tall woman with flowing black hair and bright green eyes strut onto the stage, a silk robe wrapped around her. The music kicked back on at full volume and she shook her hair, curled her fingers around the pole, and lifted herself up.

Pepper gaped. The bartender laughed. “There’s your Claudia.”

As the tendons in her muscles bulged, the corpse noted the track marks lining her arms. He shook his head and withdrew a handgun from his jacket. No doubt the stuff she injected into her veins had been invented by the devil himself, but he never got involved in the devil’s games, he remembered. At the sight of the weapon, the bartender flattened himself against the shelves of liquor. Bottles crashed to the floor, glass shattering, and the fumes of alcohol filled the corpse’s nostrils. He smiled as the patrons around him scattered. The music remained on, though, and he used it to his advantage, running toward the stage and the unsuspecting Claudia, who spun from the top of the pole, her legs and arms spread like a halcyon.

He jumped onto the stage, more people jumping back from him. Pepper reached out for her arm as she lowered herself to the floor. He felt thick fingers close on his shoulder. His body jerked back as the usurper yanked him off the stage. A beefy dark man sneered in his face. The bouncer’s breath smelled like vodka and onions. “Did you think you were going to get away with this?” the man asked. The corpse wrinkled his nose. Pepper realized that he still held the gun, though. Hoping that he did what he thought it did, he fired into the ceiling.

The bouncer laughed. “You think that’s going to stop me?” He tightened his grip on Pepper’s shoulder, yanking him away from the stage. “I’d pummel you myself but—”

Yellow flames lit up the room, searing exposed flesh like a third-degree sunburn. It licked and burned the speakers stationed throughout the establishment, plastic oozing to the floor. The music stopped. The air crackled and sizzled.
The bouncer yanked his arm away, and ran toward the exit. Pepper smiled to himself. He turned back to Claudia.

She sat on the stage, naked but wearing a glazed expression. He reached her without hassle this time and clamped his cold fingers around her wrist. She stared up at him with widened eyes, her red lips forming an O. He squeezed her arm tighter and absorbed the heroin in her system into his own body. With a belch, he freed the drug into the air. She blinked and shook her head, tears springing to her eyes.

“Not so fast,” a voice boomed. The corpse turned to a fat, bald man, his arms covered in tattoos that wrapped around his muscles. “That bitch is mine.”

Pepper pointed his gun at the man, who laughed and drew his own. Before the corpse could fire, the man put a bullet into Claudia, who sagged to the floor.

His jaw dropped open and his arm sank to his side. He looked down at Claudia’s limp form. Sputtering, he stared at the man who killed her.

“That’s right,” the fat man said. He snapped his fingers and two men climbed up onto the stage. They dragged her body to the edge, then jumped down. As they prepared to maneuver her to the floor, Pepper shook his head.

He pointed his gun at them. Pale yellow flames consumed them, their flesh crackling and twisting. When the fire died out, only steaming, charbroiled bones remained.

“The gal comes with me,” Pepper said, “dead or alive.” He pointed the gun at the fat man, who dropped his own gun and held up his hands. The corpse glanced around. Patrons cowered in small groups, grown men clinging to each other. He pointed his gun at one of them and the man whimpered. Dark urine trailed down one leg of the man’s khaki pants. Pepper laughed and strode across the stage. He lifted Claudia’s body, draping her over his shoulder, and jumped down.

Outside, he waved his gun to hail a cab idling at the curb. As he ducked in behind the girl’s body, he used his gun one more time.

The establishment went up in citrine flames, puffy grey smoke curling against the black sky.

 “It’s a damn shame,” the devil said, looking down at Claudia’s body. They stood in Pepper’s cemetery, the only place the corpse could find a patch of ghost flowers to use to summon the devil. The devil sighed and snapped his fingers. Claudia’s body disappeared. “Frank will see that she’s buried properly.” He lit a cigarette and again held out the packet to Pepper. The corpse shook his head.

“I’m sure you’re wanting your reward now,” the devil said. Pepper shrugged. The devil pulled an envelope out of his coat and handed it to him.

Pepper accepted it with cold fingers and stared at the front, stark and blank. He looked up at the devil. “Why did she have to die?”

The devil sighed. “Don’t get sentimental on me,” he said with a wave of his hand. He finished his cigarette and flicked it into a headstone. “I suppose this is goodbye.” He tipped an imaginary hat, then snapped his fingers and disappeared.

 The corpse crawled back into the tangle of roots of the old oak, the envelope tucked safely into his jacket. As soon as his limbs were wrapped around the roots, he pulled the envelope out. Squinting at it in the dim light of the moon, he read the devil’s words—the secret to ending his existence. Absorbing the knowledge, he tucked it back into his pocket. Perhaps it wasn’t quite time yet. There were other girls to save. He could get faster. Maybe the devil could find him a better weapon.

He would sleep on it, he decided as he closed his eyes. He had lived so many hundreds of years. One more night wouldn’t hurt. Perhaps it didn’t matter, anyway.

Cold moonlight filtered in through the hole. The corpse slept.

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Tattooed Heart, Chapter 2

She talked so fast, I could barely follow. The whole time, she had a dreamy smile on her face, nude painted lips parted, pearly white teeth exposed. Her eyes had a distant, whimsical look in them.
She was even more beautiful when she talked about teaching art to combat depression.

Catch Up

Chapter 2: Your Mom’s Basement

Benton

At exactly five a.m., my alarm went off. I strode into the kitchen where my best friend’s mom handed me a cup of coffee. My Italian mom, who gave me a place to land both times life hit me with a wallop.

“Thank you, Mama M,” I said in a low voice, taking an appreciative sip. As a teacher, she had to be up early, too, and we usually had our coffee together.

“Who are you going to see this morning?” she asked, giving me a knowing look.

“It’s Tuesday, so it’s Tula day,” I said.

“Which means you’ll be having vindaloo for lunch, so you don’t need this lasagna I packed.” She slid the container on the counter closer to her than me.

“Oh, I definitely need that lasagna,” I said, sliding it back to me. “Tula’s next-door neighbor just had a baby, and she doesn’t do curry. This’ll make the perfect lunch for her. I wanted to talk to her about signing up for WIC and SNAP. Her husband’s hours got cut—that’s what these programs are there for.” I slipped the container into my bag.

“Will you be home for dinner?” Mama M asked. “Or will this be one of those nights?”

“Probably gonna be one of those nights,” I admitted. I almost never made it home for dinner. “The renter’s rebate applications started coming in, and I want to stay on top of them.” I really needed an assistant, but there was no such position. A second social worker would work wonders, but tightwad Mayor Gregory Allen Matthews III—he always made sure to include his whole ass name—would never cough up the budget for one.

Mama M gave me a look.

“I know,” I said, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “Have a good day.”

“Tell my son to come for dinner tomorrow night,” she said, “and you and Goldie better be there, too.”

Since there were finally buds on the trees and I wouldn’t freeze my balls off, I walked over to Tula’s. The Shahs only lived a quick fifteen-minute walk from the Mosconis, in the condos behind the post office.

I knocked on Mrs. Shah’s door—Tula, she insisted. Before she started slinging tikka masala out of her kitchen, she and her husband ran Naan of That, the best thing to ever happen to Stagwood Falls. I used to go there just for their cinnamon and sugar naan. Life changing, that stuff. For four beautiful years, they ran that restaurant, just the two of them and their teenage daughter after school. The Shahs were older parents and barely kept up with the restaurant when their daughter went away to college, and when the pandemic hit, they had no choice but to close. Between tuition and inflation, they were struggling to get by, which was how they started selling to-go meals out of their back door. Technically, they didn’t have a license, but what the mayor didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. And I wasn’t about to snitch. I needed my vindaloo fix.

Besides, in a small town that was still very white, black and brown stuck together.

“How are you doing, Tula?” I asked as I settled into her cozy kitchen. Most people were still sleeping, but she rose early to start cooking. It was the only time I could catch her before she headed out to make her deliveries. It suited me just fine, because I was an early bird, too.

Passing me a cup of turmeric ashwagandha, she sat across from me. “Drink up. It’ll help your stress.”

“Who says I’m stressed?” I took a sip anyway. Tula was very serious about her tea. She swore if I drank it every day, it’d cure all my problems. “Anyway, I’m here for you.” I tugged the wrinkled pamphlet out of my bag.

“This again.” She waved a hand at me. “I told you, this is our home.”

I looked around at the kitchen, the vase of fresh tulips on the counter, the bowl of mangos, the Buddha sitting by the sink. “It is,” I said gently. “Senior living isn’t so bad, though. It’s like a little condo in a community full of people your age…and it goes by your income. I just don’t want you to struggle anymore.” I took her hand in both of mine.

“Oh! That reminds me.” She jumped up and gave me a bowl of sliced mango. “You need to eat something other than coffee in the morning.”

How lucky I was, to be surrounded by mothers. I took a grateful bite, moaning in appreciation. Tula’s mangos came from her sunroom grove of bonsais and were the sweetest I’d ever tasted. I couldn’t blame her for not wanting to leave her home. It made no sense that senior living couldn’t offer a stipend for people who already had housing.

“Same time next week?” I asked her, tucking away the pamphlet.

“Your vindaloo,” she said, giving me the container. “And I—”

“Need this back. I know.” I hugged her tight. “Tula, if you need anything—”

“Just you and your handsome smile.” She patted my face. “Keeps my blood pumping.”

I chuckled. “Are you saying you only keep me around for my good looks?”

“Those cheekbones, that smile,” she gushed. “My daughter is in pre-med school, you know. She’ll be a doctor. She’s also very beautiful.” She nodded to a photo on the refrigerator.

“You remind me every week. I think she’s a little young for me, though.”

“She won’t be too young by the time she graduates,” she said with a wink.

“All right, Tula. Be easy.” I walked into the morning sunlight with a smile. I almost always did, after seeing Tula.

I knocked softly on her neighbor’s door, in case the baby was still sleeping, and gave her Mama M’s lasagna with an application for SNAP and WIC. “Just so you have it,” I said before she could argue.

She gave me a tired smile. “Thank you.”

“I’ll pick it up next week. Remember, it’s your tax dollars. It’s there for you.”

“Okay,” she agreed.

“Wish Grocery takes SNAP,” I reminded her, “and Grandma Wish would never give you a hard time for it. Trust me. I grew up on SNAP. David, too. She’ll probably even load you up with some extra if Gardner Farms oversupplies her.”

“Is that how you got to be so handsome?” she teased. “All those fresh veggies.”

I headed to the office, greeting people getting into their cars on my way. Daffodils and tulips were popping up everywhere, chasing away the winter blues. It’d been a long one, for me anyway. Mama M treated me like one of her own, and David was my brother from another mother, but I felt more disconnected than ever, especially since David spent more and more time with Goldie. I mostly saw him at work, sometimes at The Main Idea. Our weekly game nights were becoming our only guy time. To take the edge off the loneliness, I dove deeper into work. If the shoe was on the other foot and I was one of my clients, I’d gently suggest to me that I might have some abandonment issues leftover from my parents.

Tula was right. Not about me marrying her daughter—we were on too different paths of life for me to ever consider it—but I should get back out on the market. I just didn’t have anything to show for myself.

On my way through the building, I passed David’s empty office. He used to show up early like me. Now he had a life. He had a beautiful girlfriend he’d probably marry, and they’d make even prettier babies, surrounded by their warm, loving families. He’d probably be city planner until he retired, which meant his beautiful home up in the Stagwood Heights neighborhood was going to be his forever, a place to raise his family.

Family could mean so many different things, something built from scratch or something built in. I knew I was lucky to be surrounded by so many people who cared about me. Part of me felt like they were just being nice, though, handling the defect who couldn’t get his life together with kid gloves.

I stepped into my office and almost ran into Sabella—beautiful, beautiful Sabella, the woman who’d once invited herself back to my place after drinks and I’d messed that up by not having a place to take her to. Then she’d laughed at me.

No wonder she was single.

“Good morning,” she said, handing me a coffee.

I looked at it and her suspiciously. “Good morning,” I repeated. She wore her long black hair parted down the middle and straightened, framing her face. It skimmed her waist, or at least I thought so. Her hair blended into the oversized Touch of Gold hoodie she wore over leggings. Black, black, and more black. Even first thing in the morning, no makeup or anything, Sabella was stunning. “You’re the real life Morticia,” I blurted.

“If that’s supposed to be an insult, you’re gonna have to do a lot better than that,” she said. “Morticia Addams is a compliment. She’s a Latina queen.”

“It was a compliment,” I said, “but now I take it back. What are you doing here?”

“You can’t undo a compliment. And I already know you want to hit this,” she said sweetly.

“Wanted,” I corrected. For all her beauty, she had zero filter. I liked that I couldn’t predict her, and did not like how sharp her tongue could be. “So what do you want?”

“Your help,” she said, sitting in the visitor’s chair at my desk. “I want to put aside your heartbreaking rejection and ask for your help with a proposal—”

“No way,” I interrupted.

“—for my community art program,” she finished. She folded her hands in her lap, and I spotted dainty tattoos on her fingers before she moved them again, gesturing. “So? Are you going to help me? Pretty please. With sugar.” She batted long lashes at me. “It’s for the community. For mental health. Art therapy is—”

“Come on, we talked about this at David’s,” I said. “I’ve got too much on my plate. The timing—”

“Is a little crazy, I know, but hear me out. Don’t you think the town needs something exactly like this right now?” She blinked up at me, big brown eyes suckering me in.

We just kept looking at each other, her gaze inquisitive and soft, and mine… Well, I probably looked dopey as hell, staring at her. I couldn’t help it. From the moment I saw her at The Main Idea a year earlier, I hadn’t been able to look away. She was all bronze skin and legs, with more tattoos than I could possibly process, up and down every inch of exposed arm, leg, and even her neck. Most of them were roses. Sabella was covered in roses. The red complemented her skin, and the flowers only enhanced her beauty.

“Won’t you let me at least give you my pitch? I’ve been practicing in the mirror,” she pleaded.

“Fine. Give me your pitch. I’m not making any promises,” I warned.

She clapped her hands together, breaking the spell. “¡Wepa!” As she pulled a folder out of her bag, it snagged on the zipper and ripped the corner.

This girl was a beautiful tornado. A walking work of art. And I’d foolishly rejected her, probably taking out any chance of ever really getting to know her, never mind date her.

“In a perfect world, I want to do class twice a week for six weeks—eight, really—with a show at the end of it. A big festival. Outdoor, probably, with vendors and live music, and—”

She talked so fast, I could barely follow. The whole time, she had a dreamy smile on her face, nude painted lips parted, pearly white teeth exposed. Her eyes had a distant, whimsical look in them.

She was even more beautiful when she talked about teaching art to combat depression.

I dropped into the chair on the other side of the desk, my legs a little weak. Everything she was saying was exactly the reason I’d become a social worker. Like her, I wanted to reach out and give people a little lift. Life was hard. Most people were weighted down by poverty or chronic illness, either physical or mental—hell, sometimes both. I’d grown up with separated parents who had me young and never grew up themselves. I was used to coming home to an empty home, my mom at her second job. Dad wasn’t around much, but he made sure I got everything I needed. Money was still tight, even with social services. There were programs Mom didn’t even know about that she found out about through friends. I wanted to make sure everyone knew about these programs, and even make some new ones that everyone had access to.

Sabella was speaking directly to my soul. Our eyes locked again, two souls communicating without words. We wanted the same thing for Stagwood Falls, a place that’d been hit hard by both recessions in our lifetime. People in town were suffering, and only a handful of them came into my office. Some were too prideful or even ashamed to ask for help. An art program would draw people in, and by talking to them throughout the program, I could gauge their needs and make casual suggestions.

“We could do so much together,” I said at last.

“That’s what I’m saying!” she said with a grin. “So are you in, homeless Benton?”

“I already told you I’m in, and don’t call me that,” I said.

“Sometimes in my head I call you Señor Serio,” she said, dropping her voice and exaggerating a serious expression.

“Don’t call me that either,” I said.

“See? So serious. You’re gonna get frown lines right here.” Standing, she reached across my desk and touched the spot between my eyebrows. Heat bloomed where the pads of her fingers met my skin, radiating through me. Her hands on me felt like the kind of good I’d never get enough of.

The kind of good that wouldn’t matter because I had nothing to offer her.

I caught her hand in mine. “Let’s just focus on the program, cool?”

“Cool,” she said with a shrug, but I didn’t miss the disappointment in her eyes. Maybe she’d felt it, too. Maybe she hadn’t. It didn’t matter.

If I helped roll out her art program, I’d have a foolproof reason for Matthews to give me a raise. Then I’d finally get out of David’s old bedroom, and I’d have something real to offer a woman like Sabella.

I rolled up my sleeves.

Thank you for reading Chapter 2 of Tattooed Heart, Book 2 in the Stagwood Falls: Love in Ink series.

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“The small town vibes are impeccable”
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“I love how she writes so real”
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“Crazy tension”
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Sabella makes a living covering up people’s bad tattoos, creating art out of regrets and mistakes. When she finds herself separated from her high school sweetheart turned heartbreaker, she doesn’t just go into hiding; she takes her best friend up on an offer for a fresh start at her new tattoo shop and runs all the way to Stagwood Falls, an idyllic town reinventing itself after its own heartache. It’s the perfect place to hide, and it’s where she finds a new purpose: teaching the healing power of art to a community that’s desperate to move on. Unfortunately, to put her plan into action, Sabella must enlist the help of one sexy, sensitive town social worker, Benton Rhinehart—AKA the guy who wants nothing to do with her after their first encounter ended in hurt feelings and a wounded ego.

Benton gives everything to the people of Stagwood Falls, but the bank still took all he had when the recession hit. Instead of rebuilding himself, he eagerly dove headfirst into solving other people’s problems. So when Sabella comes to him with her community art program plan, Benton doesn’t hesitate to throw himself fully into it, even if that means working with the woman who shamelessly snubbed him the first time they met.

Despite their rocky start, it’s hard to ignore that Sabella and Benton make a great team. Their business relationship quickly turns into a friendship they both desperately need. Even though they’re better off as friends, the more time they spend together, the harder it is to ignore that there’s something much deeper going on. But when Sabella’s ex comes to town saying everything she wants to hear, she has to choose between her heart and her dream. Both feel like the same thing, and choosing wrong is one mistake she won’t be able to cover up.

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A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 2

I dreamed him into being. He’s tall and strong enough to dick me down. The prison fight scar on his eyebrow makes him even hotter. He’s next on my To Do list, then I’ll lose him.

What he says next makes me forget my rules.

Olivia

“Are you sure you want to do this?” my sister Lucy asks me for the thousandth time. She lifts a man’s shirt on its hanger from a rack and examines the price tag. It’s one of those super soft henley shirts—the ones that belong on Calvin Klein models but look good on anyone.

I peg her with my best baby sister look, the wide-eyed “Please play Barbies with me” one. Works every time. She sighs, shaking her head.

“You’re going to miss class, Livvie. And I don’t know how long this is going to take.” It’s a half-hearted attempt. She tucks a curl behind her ear and tilts her head.

“It’s like a free vacation,” I tell her, grabbing the cart she’s pushing and leading it toward a table of men’s jeans. “Is he a bootcut kind of guy, do you think?”

Lucy frowns, a crease forming between her eyebrows. “I’m not sure. And Pennsylvania is cold this time of year. It’s really not like a vacation, kid.”

Even though we’re both in our twenties, Lucy is seven years older than me. Sometimes it feels like an eternity—especially when I was still into Barbies and she was experimenting with makeup. She’ll be thirty before I hit twenty-five, which is usually prime marriage age, but not for Lucy. She’ll never get married.

“Well,” I say, drawing out the word, “it will be, if he’s hot.”

Lucy nearly chokes. Her face streaks through with red, and the tips of her ears practically glow. “He’s like your cousin,” she hisses.

I think of all the ways our parents will disapprove of this, how they already disapprove of him. This morning, when Lucy filled me in on what she was doing, she made me promise not to tell Mom and Dad. I’m twenty-one and yet apparently still have to swear to little sister secrecy. Other than that, she didn’t tell me much. Just that our cousin Cliff needed some help because he just got out of prison. And then those cherry red lips of hers clamped shut.

It’s weird, because Lucy and I tell each other everything. Seven years is a lucky number. We were meant to be.

“Dude, I’m dying to know. What did he go away for?” I start unfolding jeans, checking sizes and seeing how they fall. I’ve never dressed a guy before. It’s kind of turning me on, and I haven’t even met him yet. I don’t know what to expect, so I imagine that he’s tall and muscular, with dark eyes and long hair. A beard, for sure. And he’s broad. He could throw me around in bed like a rag doll. I smirk.

“Stop that,” Lucy hisses. She throws me a glare.

I sigh. The past three years of college were fun, but this new semester has me in a bit of a dry spell. Everyone is focusing on their GPAs, which is odd considering we’re all legal drinking age now. You’d think they’d all be at the bar with me. Not that I don’t want to graduate and get a good job. But this is it, the last semester before we’re shoved into adulthood. Real responsibility and all that. Not only am I curious about the ex-con, but I’m also bored. And when I get bored . . .

“Please try not to get into trouble,” Lucy continues, reading my mind. It’s her superpower. “Mom and Dad will kill me if they find out I dragged you into this.”

“Dragged me into what?” I toss several pairs of jeans into the cart, then face her. Crossing my arms, I give her another baby sis look. It’s almost too easy—usually, anyway.

But this time, Lucy ignores me. She takes back control of the cart and marches toward the checkout queue. Frowning, I follow her, grabbing a makeup palette off a shelf as I pass it and chucking it into the cart. She owes me, damn it.

“We’ve got to catch our train,” Lucy reminds me again over her shoulder as she piles everything onto the checkout counter. “So no time for smoke breaks, understand?”

It’s like I’m seven again and our parents let us go to the mall alone for the first time. I hold my hands up, backing away. “All right. If you’ve got this, then, I’m going outside.” There’s no way I’m getting into a car with her for forty-five minutes and then hopping on a train for twelve billion hours without a cigarette first.

Outside, the icy air blasts into me and I huddle deep into my coat. Cupping the flame, I light the cigarette, wishing it could warm me up. A gust of wind whips around the corner of the building, and I turn, shivering.

Maybe this whole thing is a bad idea. Lucy is right—I would be missing classes. Call it a case of senior-itis, but I’m desperate to stretch my wings. I need a break from the monotony of sleep-class-food-class. And I’ll be honest: Lucy got my curiosity going. As I smoke, I run back through the tidbits she’s given me. I know his name, that he just got out of prison in Pennsylvania, and that Lucy was the only one he could call. I guess he must be the black sheep of the family—maybe got busted for drugs. It is kind of weird that he wasn’t serving in Connecticut, though.

I suck the cigarette down, toss it into the parking lot, and nearly crash into Lucy as she comes through the doors.

“Shit, sorry.” I touch her arms to steady her.

“Cold?” she asks with a smirk.

We throw ourselves into the car, the heater on blast but not nearly hot enough. Lucy makes a barely livable wage as a teacher. Her car is a decade old and sometimes the warm air coming out of the vents smells like burning rubber. She also has to get out and slam her fist into the left headlight to get it to work.
But she has a car, which is more than I’ve got.

We drive to the train station in New Haven, and I say a silent prayer that it isn’t the one with no walls or anything. It’s way too cold for that shit. But as we pull into the Union Avenue parking lot, relief washes through me. It’s the bigger one, the one with heat and bathrooms. Not that we have time to even enjoy it, according to Lucy. You’d think the world was going to end if we missed this train.

Lucy parks, and I wonder if it’s safe to leave her car unattended in New Haven for a week plus. It might be a lemon but it’s all she’s got. But there is a gate and a guy sitting in the booth, so I try to convince myself that no one will jack it. Older cars are a lot easier to steal. All they’d have to do is pay the parking fee.

“How much is this gonna cost you?” I ask as she hauls our suitcases out of the trunk. She plunks mine down in front of me, then hands me the shopping bags full of Cliff’s new clothes. I’m not at all surprised that she’s doing all this, though. Lucy may be afraid of commitment, but when it comes to people she loves, she’d give you the shirt off your back. Still, it’s kind of odd that she’s never mentioned Cliff before if she used to be so close with him.

Lucy shrugs. “It doesn’t matter.”

Eyes narrowing, I scrutinize her face. It’s hard to tell in the dim lighting of the parking lot, but she looks funny. I can’t put a name to her expression, though. She almost looks pained, but happy—like she just got a bullet in the leg but told she won the lottery right after.

I follow her, frowning at her back. She’s acting so weird. And I’m not used to there being secrets between us. I resolve to flirt the truth out of Cliff the second I’m alone with him. He may be my cousin, but there’s nothing wrong with a little flirting.

“This way,” Lucy says, pushing through the entrance. Wishing I’d smoked one last cigarette during the walk over, I hurry after her. The station doesn’t look at all like I’d pictured it. I bite my lip, realizing that I’ve never been on a train. Or a plane. I’m like a travel virgin.

“What if I have to pee?” I chase her to the departure list. It flips, a loud clacking sound echoing through the lobby.

My sister studies the times, nodding to herself. “It’s not that bad. You’ll get used to it.”

“So there is a bathroom on this thing?”

She takes off again, heading toward our track. I have no idea how any of this works. With my luck, I’d get on the wrong one if I had to do this alone. There aren’t even people to ask, unless you want to go all the way back to the front desk or find someone at a track. This whole thing is totally DIY, and I don’t like it. It’s too much of a reminder that in three months, I’ll be doing all of it myself, every day.

“Status is ‘Boarding,’ so hurry!” Lucy breaks into a brisk walk-jog thing. Groaning, I step up my pace.

We run through a freezing cold tunnel that’s connected to the rest of the station by a wide open archway. The state must pay an arm and a leg to keep the rest of the place warm. The air smells heavy with body odor, exhaust, and cigarette smoke. My fingers twitch toward the pack in my coat pocket, but Lucy glances back at me, a fierce glare on her face. I run faster.

Finally we reach our train. She leads me onto it, and my legs shake with gratitude for the seat I’m about to plop into. But every single row is full.

Gaping, I turn toward her. “We’re not that late!”

She smiles a little, shaking her head. “Come on.”

Lucy leads me toward a door on an end of the car. Then she disappears into it, lugging her rolling suitcase behind her. I dart after her, and find myself in a small connecting tunnel, encased from the elements with heavy vinyl flaps. Through the window in the door of the next car, I see Lucy plowing forward. Every seat in that car is full, too.

Glancing down, I’m shocked to see a flash of the track, lit by the lights of the train station. I hope I won’t have to walk through one of these once we’re moving, then hurry to catch up.

Eventually we find a pair of empty seats. Lucy shoves her luggage into a compartment above our heads and I mimic her like a good little sister. Then we collapse.

The seats are surprisingly comfortable. I snuggle into mine and wiggle my toes in my boots. Then I peer around our car.

The whole thing is full. There are still people wandering the cars, looking for a place to sit. The train starts to move, and everyone who is walking grabs onto something to steady themselves as they continue their trek. I’m super grateful that we found seats at all, never mind two together. Looking around, though, I start to worry that I really will have to walk between cars to pee.

“Uh, Luce?” I turn toward her.

She stares out the window, her brown hair a veil around her face. “Hmn?”

“Where’s the bathroom?”

Lucy shifts in her seat. A soft smile plays on her lips. “At the back of the car. If you have to pee, I’d go now. It gets pretty rank after about six hours.”

I glance back and notice the door on the left. “Won’t it stink up the whole car?”

She shakes her head. “There’s like a squirt of Febreze every so often coming through the air vents. Plus we’re far enough away from the door. This is the best spot, trust me.”

“I’ll deal with anything as long as I don’t have to hop cars while we’re moving,” I tell her.

“Why do you think I hunted for seats?” she asks with a grin.

I start to tell her it’s pretty obvious, since they were all taken, but instead I smile back. Truth be told, I’m nervous about spending half a day on a train—overnight. Adjusting to the dorms at school was cake compared to this. I don’t know how I’ll sleep or where I’ll get coffee in the morning.

Reading my mind again, Lucy pats the purse balanced on her knees. It’s more like a tote bag. “I’ve got Starbucks fraps in here. They’ll be room temp by morning but they’ll do the trick.”

“Have I told you lately that I love you?” I quick-hug her by resting my head on her shoulder for a second, pressing our arms together.

Lucy exhales, a long breath. For a second, guilt flickers in her eyes. Then she smiles, and like the sun after a storm, all of the clouds scatter. “I love you too, Livvie.”

My gut twists. This trip is not going to end well. I just know it.

 Morning rises and my eyes feel like sandpaper. Just as I’d thought, I didn’t sleep. It’s impossible to drift off when you’re rocking and jolting over bumps. Lucy didn’t sleep either, so I don’t feel too bad. We can be miserable together.

But my sister is anything but miserable as the train lurches into the Amtrak station. She’s practically chipper as she gets our luggage down from their compartment and practically skips toward the exit. I shamble after her, reminding myself that at least we’re here.

“Hey, how did you get time off anyway?” I ask her as we step off the train and into fresh air. I step to the side, letting go of my suitcase long enough to light a cigarette.

“Toss it,” she instructs in her teacher voice.

I lift an eyebrow at her while taking a nice, long drag. There’s nothing like a first cigarette after hours of deprivation.

“Our ride is here.”

Rolling my eyes, I point the cigarette at her. “It can wait. It’s not like we have far to go.”

Lucy presses her lips together and smiles guiltily, eyebrows lifted.

“We don’t have far to go . . . right?”

With a shrug, she grabs her suitcase and heads toward an Escalade idling in the parking lot. “We’re in Harrisburg, about an hour away from Lewisburg.”

My shoulders slump. Smoking as quickly as possible, I chase her to the Escalade. She must’ve called an Uber. I pray that the driver doesn’t have a non-smoking policy, but the dirty look he gives me as we near pops my little bubble. Taking one last drag, I toss it onto the pavement.

The closer we get to Lewisburg, the more keyed up I feel. Lucy had the driver stop at a Starbucks, so I feel slightly more human now. Curiosity is what’s really fueling me. Using a compact mirror, I touch up the makeup that was smudged by our harrowing overnight train ride and smooth my hair. Lucy raises an eyebrow at me but says nothing, and the driver lets us pick songs from his iPod. Not a bad deal, considering he made me waste my cigarette.

And then suddenly we’re in Lewisburg, and the Escalade pulls up in front of the entrance to a Days Inn. A man paces out front, his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat. Long brown hair that’s nearly black frames his face, and he’s got a beard, so I can’t really make out his features. But he’s big.

Not in a heavy way. He’s tall and broad. Even with that bulky hand-me-down coat, I can tell he’s built. It’s like I’m psychic and imagined him into being. Biting my lip, I stifle a giggle. For all I know, he’s really ugly and has a beer gut.

It really has been too long since I’ve gotten laid.

Lucy pays the Uber guy, we grab our luggage, and then my sister and I are standing in front of the motel with Cliff.

“They kicked you out?” she asks him.

He looks up, and depthless brown eyes meet hers. Despite the massive amounts of fur on his face, he’s handsome.

Hot, even.

There’s a scar next to his eyebrow that’s more like a pocked hole. It looks like someone bludgeoned him with a big rock. They probably did. But the rest of his face is intact—no teardrop tattoos or anything like that. His eyes are surprisingly soft and kind. When he smiles at Lucy, it lights up his whole face.

I decide he definitely went to jail for selling drugs, and wonder how long before he’s connected again. I could use some bud.

“Checkout was eleven,” he says with a shrug. He peers at her, almost timidly. “You look good, kid.”

Kid? I blink. Squinting, I examine him more closely. I note the lines at the corners of his eyes and the dark circles beneath them. He’s got to be in his early thirties, maybe older. I pluck my pack of cigarettes from my pocket and light one, exhaling smoke into the air.

“Olivia,” Lucy says, exasperated. She gestures toward the motel entrance, as if someone is going to walk out into my cloud of smoke any second. The parking lot is close to empty, the place desolate.

“Yeah, Olivia,” Cliff says, eyebrows lifted. “Sharing is caring.” He holds his hand out for one.

A grin spreads across my face. Resisting the urge to stick my tongue out at my sister, I hand him the pack and my lighter.

He lights up, and his entire face relaxes as if I just took his cock into my mouth instead of sharing a cigarette. Putting my own cigarette between my lips, I stuff down the giggle that is bubbling up. I really am sleep deprived.

“Been a while?” I ask when I get myself under control. Even that statement is dangerously close to twelve-year-old humor. I take another drag.

Cliff nods and smokes thoughtfully for a minute. His eyes never leave mine. They’re a deep brown, but so warm—like redwood. “It’s been twenty years since I had a cigarette that wasn’t stale. But that’s not all I’ve been missing.” He grins, a devilish smirk that shoots straight to my lower abdomen. The implication behind his words might be in my head.

Lucy clears her throat loudly. “Clifford, this is Olivia, my little sister.”

The color drains from his face and he chokes on his cigarette. “Sister?” he sputters.

I snort. “Relax,” I tell him with a wink. “I’m adopted.”

Thank you for reading Chapter 2 of A Disturbing Prospect, Book 1 in the River Reapers MC series.

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The Stairs Between Us, Chapter 2

A full year had passed since we separated, and six months since the divorce was finalized, and still just the sight of her knocked the air out of my lungs. I fought the urge to embrace her. My ex-wife. I still couldn’t get used to the phrase.

Levi

Wind whipped around the corners of the house, creating an eerie howling effect. I sat in the kitchen, listening more to the wind than to the guy I called my best friend. Guilt picked at my stomach, making it acidic. I should’ve been making an effort to be there for him. The only thing I could focus on, though, was the time ticking closer on the wall.

“I think it might be stress,” Theo said in his soft-spoken voice. It was hard to believe that a nearly seven-foot man could have such a gentle voice. He spread his dark hands. “Pamela’s got her hopes so high, and she gets so frustrated.” He cleared his throat.

My gaze snapped up from the kitchen table. I met his brown eyes across the table. “Sorry, man.”

“Is Noah dropping off Joey this morning?” he asked.

I nodded, rubbing the back of my head. “Any minute now.”

“I guess there’s no chance in me stealing you for a run.” Theo grinned, and for the first time I realized he wore his running gear.

I glanced down at my long-sleeved henley and jeans. Maybe I would’ve been better off throwing on sweats. I no longer had the effect on Noah that I’d had on her in college, but I still tried.

It was pathetic.

“A run might help get your mind off things,” Theo said, his voice returning to that lulling level.

“Yeah,” I agreed, “but I can’t leave Joey.”

“I’m sure Pamela wouldn’t mind looking after him.”

I laughed, the sound bitter. “And have it get back to Noah that I dropped my kid off on someone else the second he got here? No thanks.” I rubbed at my beard. “How did I get here, man?”

“It takes time.” He stood to his full height. After over ten years of friendship, I was used to him towering over me. At UConn, people called us Sully and Mike when we walked around campus together. He’d go to basketball practice and I’d head to my pre-med classes.

Or the poetry class where I’d met Noah.

Together, though, Theo and I were a duo. When people threw parties in their dorms, they told each other: “Make sure you invite Sully and Mike.”

College. Those were the good days.

The doorbell rang, yanking me out of my thoughts. Standing, I tried to arrange my features into what I hoped was a relaxed expression. Instead, my brows rested heavily over my eyes as I made my way to the front door. Taking a deep breath, I swung the door open wide.

“Daddy!” Joey threw himself into my arms.

I scooped him up, hugging him to my chest. “Hey buddy.” Over his head, I glanced at her.

Noah.

A full year had passed since we separated, and six months since the divorce was finalized, and still just the sight of her knocked the air out of my lungs. She lifted her angular chin, sapphire eyes looking at Joey and me but avoiding my gaze. She nibbled at her full, pink lips.

Releasing Joey, I fought the urge to embrace her, too. My ex-wife. I still couldn’t get used to the phrase.

“Uncle Theo’s in the kitchen,” I told our son.

Joey’s eyes lit up. Dropping his backpack in the entryway, he took off toward the kitchen.

“This isn’t a dumping ground!” Noah called after him. Her eyes sparkled with amusement, though.

A year earlier, this had been our home. Yet there she stood, in the doorway, half out of my life.

“Want a cup of coffee?” I asked, shoving my hands into the pockets of my jeans. Cold air swirled around my bare feet.

“I should go.” She jerked a thumb toward the car idling in the driveway. When she left, she didn’t even keep the car I’d bought for her. She drove a brand new Toyota Camry that she was probably leasing—and paying out the nose for every month.

I didn’t get it. She could’ve kept the Jaguar. I’d bought it for her.

“It’s cold,” I said. “Just come in for a few. Run me through school?”

For a second, her eyes lit up. Then her lips tightened. “I’ve got lesson planning to do.” She turned, low ponytail whipping around through the bottom of her beanie.

I closed my eyes. I’d meant Joey’s school, forgetting entirely that she’d started grad school—all while caring for our son and teaching English at the high school. “Wait,” I called. “How’s business school?”

She paused, boots crunching over the salt on the shoveled front walk. Turning, she shoved her hands into the pockets of her coat. Her eyes lifted, but still didn’t meet mine.

When I breathed in, my chest ached. Without her in my life, I rattled around in my body, in the big empty house we’d once shared. Though she haunted me, I was the ghost.

“Demanding,” she said. “I’ve gotta go.” She hesitated as if she had more to say.

“Noah . . .” A thousand questions burned on my own lips. Even after all those months, I still didn’t know why she left me. I’d thought we had a good thing going. Sure, my job could be demanding. I was the best pediatric urologist in the region. Those kids needed me, and I couldn’t exactly ignore my pages. I knew Noah wanted me home more, but I thought she understood.

Until I came home to a dark house.

“Can you drop him off tomorrow night?” she asked, eyes on my beard.

I suppressed a grin. She’d always liked when I went without shaving for a few days. I was pushing dress code at work, but seeing the look in her eyes was worth it. “Of course,” I said, voice soft.

“I would just get him myself, but it’d buy me some extra study time.”

“It’s no problem.” I swallowed, and stepped onto the porch. “Look, Noah, I can take him for the week, if that helps.”

Those triangular eyes narrowed. “Our current custody agreement works just fine.”

“I know,” I said quickly. “I just meant, if you need me to step up to sixty/forty custody, just to give you more time for school—”

She laughed, a short, bitter bark. “How exactly would that work? Are you going to take a vacation?”

I licked my lips. “I’m trying to help.”

“Or are you just going to send him to your mom’s?” She clenched her keys.

Jaw tightening, I sucked in a deep breath. “I’m just going to finish my coffee,” I sat flatly. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

“Great,” she said. She turned, boots scraping against the ground. Her heel spun, sliding over a small patch of ice that the snow removal guy had missed. Legs flying out in opposite directions, she started to fall.

I jumped down from the porch, bare feet slapping against the freezing cold walkway. Pebbles of salt bit into the soles of my feet. Arms outstretched, I reached for her. I hooked one arm under her bottom, wrapping another around her shoulders, and drew her into me.

We both went down.

I landed hard on my back, the air exiting my lungs in an icy whoosh. My body absorbed the impact, and I cradled Noah in my arms. With a grunt, I met her eyes.

Only inches separated us. Those blue eyes stared into mine, both wonder and fear mingling in them. I frowned. She had nothing to fear from me. I would never hurt her. Both the oaths I’d taken bound me from harming her: the Hippocratic Oath, and my marriage vows.

Even though our marriage was technically over, I’d never break them.

“Are you okay?” she whispered. Her breath warmed my face.

“Yes,” I rasped. I tried to suck in a deep breath, but my lungs were still in shock.

A strand of hair escaped her beanie, caressing my cheek. “I’m sorry,” she said, lips so close to mine, all I had to do was lift my head.

“Good thing,” I panted, “I’m off today.”

“Good thing you’re a doctor.” A corner of her mouth lifted. “Tell me what to do for you, Dr. Wester.”

Come home, I wanted to say. As my lungs started working correctly, though, I realized my arms were still around her—my hand still on her ass. I loosened my grip, releasing her.

She brushed snow out of my hair. “Thank goodness your head landed in the snow.”

I glanced around. Sure enough, we’d twisted as we fell. The snow wasn’t exactly soft, but it’d saved me from cracking my head open on the pavement.

Noah rolled off me, and my body instantly went cold without her. I sucked in a deep breath to salve the ache in my chest. She stood, holding her hand out to me.

Reaching for her, I braced my elbow against the walkway, pushing off as her hand closed around mine. I outweighed her by at least 100 lb. “Thanks.”

Biting her lip, she walked around me, evaluating. “You look okay to me, but you fell hard, Levi.”

“I’m fine,” I lied. “Really. It’s nothing a little Advil can’t fix.”

Most of the damage wasn’t physical, though. All of the painkillers in the world couldn’t help me, not with Noah out of my life.

“Theo’s inside, too,” she said, as if reminding herself that she had no obligation to stick around and nurse me.

“He’s going to be devastated to hear that I won’t be running with him for a while.” I shooed her. “Go. We’ll be fine.”

“Okay.” Her eyes flicked up to mine for a moment, then darted away. Without another word, she moved carefully down the driveway.

Just like in our divorce, I’d absorbed the impact. Noah always got away clean, leaving me to lick my wounds. Before she left, all I’d wanted was a family and a career, but I couldn’t juggle the two. After, I’d thrown myself into work, dropping the ball as a father in an effort to save my patients and give my son everything he wanted. Sometimes I thought I’d never find the right balance.

The Stairs Between Us

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The Stairs Between Us, Chapter 1

No matter how much time passed, part of me would always long to be back in that house. I wanted the man I’d married. The man who looked at me as if I was his whole world, his eyes filled with the dreams he had for us. The Levi who saw the whole picture and wanted to keep looking.

That Levi was gone. I didn’t know how to get him back, so I left.

Noah

The early morning glow filtered through the blinds—the wrong kind of light. It should’ve tipped me off, but it never did. I rolled onto my side to face him, a hand automatically stretching out. My fingers touched cool sheets.

Empty bed.

No husband.

There were still mornings when I woke, half expecting to find myself in my husband’s house, in our bed. Most mornings, actually. I should’ve been used to it, but somewhere between sleep and the land of the living, my brain kept glitching out.

Levi always kept blackout curtains in our bedroom. Those sheets never saw the light of day. With his odd hours, he needed to be able to sleep no matter what time of day.

I squeezed my eyes shut, willing myself back to that bedroom, to that life. To the person that I was. The velvet inside of my eyelids glowed red from the diffused light, the illusion shattered.

Even though I’d divorced my husband, I still missed him.

No matter how much I missed him, though, I’d had to leave.

I glanced at the alarm clock on my nightstand. I didn’t have to get up for another fifteen minutes, but I couldn’t go back to sleep. My brain already ticked through each thing I had to do for the day, a perpetual running list that never shut up—even while I slept.

Running feet pounded the carpeted hallway as my six-year-old son zoomed toward my room. He flew through the open door and bounded into bed with me.

“Good morning, Momma!”

Pushing away all of my worries, I snuggled him into my arms. “I love my cup of morning Joey.” I inhaled the scent of his mousy brown hair, breathing in the scent of sleep and berry kids’ shampoo from his bath the night before.

“Am I going to Daddy’s today?”

“Tomorrow, buddy.” I hugged him tighter. “Today’s Friday.”

Joey giggled. “No, Momma. Today’s Saturday.”

He was right. I threw on a smile to hide my grimace. “Are you sure? I can still bring you to school.” My fingers found his ribs, tickling lightly.

He squealed, wriggling away from me. “No school. I want to go home. I mean, to Daddy’s.” He studied my face with dark eyes that were so like Levi’s, waiting for my reaction.

“Daddy’s house is your home, too,” I reminded him. My heart throbbed with guilt. What I did hadn’t been easy on my son. As much as I missed Levi, I knew Joey missed the three of us being together even more, no matter how much of a brave face he put on.

“Why . . . ?” His voice trailed off.

“What, buddy?” I sat up in bed, tendrils of dark hair reaching down my back, tickling my skin as they tumbled over my shoulders.

“Never mind,” he mumbled. His eyebrows remained pinched together, though.

“Honey? Talk to me.” I stroked his smooth, creamy white cheek with my thumb.

“Why can’t we go home?” Those round brown eyes stared up at me.

“We are home.” I gathered him into my lap. “This is my home, and Daddy’s house is his home, and both of those places are your home. Remember?”

Twisting in my arms, Joey came face to face with me. “Seems like a lot of homes.”

I chuffed a tiny laugh through my nose, a smile touching my lips. That was another way that Joey was like Levi. They both thought logically. All of the pieces needed to fit, no room for arguments or emotions. Sometimes I wondered if this boy was even mine. The only physical feature he’d inherited from me was my chin. My sapphire eyes skipped him, and his genes took off running after his father.

“Sometimes mommies and daddies need to have more than one home.” I patted his leg.

“Yes,” he said, as if explaining to a toddler, “but one home costs less money.”

“I know you want things to be the way they used to be, but we’re still a family.”

Joey slid out of my arms and off the bed. “We have a lot of bills.” He turned and padded toward the hall in his bare feet. “Can we have pancakes?” he asked over his shoulder as he ambled out of sight.

I sighed. Even though he was only six, he saw and heard everything. He noted the bills piling on the table, some with red PAST DUE stamps, and assembled the pieces. Just like he saw Levi’s empty kitchen table, the mortgage already paid off and the bills automatically withdrawn from his checking account.

Leaving my husband had cost me more than I’d been prepared to lose.

Life went on, though. It had to. If I spent too much time assessing my decision, I might doubt it. And I didn’t have room in my life to start second-guessing myself.

The damage was done, as they said.

I climbed out of bed and wrapped myself in my thick flannel bathrobe, tucking my feet into slippers. As I moved through my room, I glanced out the window. Part of me hoped that I’d see snow on the ground, January continuing its pattern of dumping snow on our small New England town just so I could keep Joey for one more day. No such luck, though. Both the sky and streets were clear.

That soft morning sunlight kept on shining.

On Saturday mornings before it all fell apart, Levi let me sleep in. I’d wake up to coffee in the carafe and my husband flipping omelettes on the stove. I’d hop up onto the counter, he’d hand me a plate, and I’d wrap my legs around his waist. Then I’d feed us both little bites while we talked about our dreams and laughed.

Sometimes dreams can turn into nightmares, though. You can become consumed by what you think you want, until your view of everything around you slowly narrows and you lose sight of what’s important. The people you leave behind are forced to pick up the pieces, to make the hard decisions.

I couldn’t explain these things to my son, though. At only six, his world view was simple: mommies and daddies stayed together. At least, his were supposed to. No matter how many times I read him children’s books about divorce, or how many kids in his first grade class told him their parents separated too, Joey would always want us back together.

I couldn’t blame him.

No matter how much time passed, part of me would always long to be back in that house. The days I longed for, though, weren’t the later years of our marriage. I wanted to return to before Joey was born. Not because I didn’t want my son, but because I wanted the man I’d married. The man who held my hand on our walk over to campus, who slipped sweet little notes into my backpack.

I wanted the Levi who looked at me as if I was his whole world, his brown almond-shaped eyes filled with the dreams he had for us. The Levi who saw the whole picture and wanted to keep looking.

That Levi was gone, though, replaced with a cold lookalike who barely saw me when he bothered to come home. The doppelgänger who came home from the hospital hardly glanced at our son, ignoring his pleas to “Come play dinosaurs with me, Daddy.”

I shuffled into the kitchen where Joey already stood on a chair at the counter. A mixing bowl and the box of pancake mix sat in front of him.

“I waited for you,” he told me.

Kissing the top of his head, I grabbed a measuring cup. He was already six. There weren’t too many pancake mornings left, fewer still afternoons spent playing with dinosaurs in a sandbox.

Whether you paid attention or not, time kept moving forward.

“Wanna stir?” I asked my son. He nodded and I handed him a rubber spatula. “Go for it.”

“Momma,” he began as I poured water into the mix.

I paused, holding the measuring cup over the board. “Yeah?”

“You’re putting too much water.”

Peering at the pancake mix and the water already in the bowl, I shook my head. “Honey, I’ve been making pancakes since before you were born.”

“Momma,” he said again. “It’s a two to three ratio.”

I blinked at him. “It’s a do what now?”

Joey sighed. “It’s one and a half cups of water for every two cups of mix.” Gently, he took the measuring cup from my hand and set it down. Then he grabbed the box and pointed to the chart on the back. “See?”

Shaking my head, I moved toward the coffee pot. “I’ll just let you handle that, then,” I told him, reminded again of how like Levi he was. Math and science—those came easily to the men of my heart. When I made pancakes, I just added water until the batter was right. When Levi made them, the measurements had to be exact.

Precision made for a fantastic surgeon. Surgeons made for terrible spouses. I just hoped that Joey wouldn’t take after his father in that department, too.

Read Chapter 2

Just One More Minute, Chapter 2

Matt slumped into a chair in Katherine’s office. After hearing the news the other night, he hadn’t even wanted to open the bakery for the next day. There was no point. The place was lifeless without her. But she’d made it abundantly clear to him that she wanted him to keep the place going if anything happened to her. Her lawyer was definitely making sure sure that he followed her last wishes, too.

So he’d opened up Elli’s on Saturday and accepted a steady stream of customers mourning Katherine. He spent the day serving them coffee and pastries, pushing his own feelings aside. There was no choice. If he thought about his mentor too much, he would break. Katherine had been more than that, really. She’d been like a mother to him.

He’d closed early and fallen into a heavy sleep, resolving not to open on Sunday. But the lawyer had given him a friendly wakeup call that morning, imploring him to get to work. Matt didn’t know what to expect, but nothing had changed. People continued to flock to Elli’s, offering him their condolences and treating the weekend as a memorial service in and of itself.

He dragged a hand through his brown curls, sighing. He’d made it through most of the weekend, but he had no idea what would happen next. Without Katherine, he had no job. It was only a matter of time.

The smart thing to do would be to skip the wake that evening and spend the night figuring out what he was going to do. He’d graduated high school only by the skin of his teeth. College hadn’t even been an option. If it wasn’t for Katherine, he and his family would be homeless. And he would never be able to thank her for what she’d done for him.

There was no way he could miss her wake, though. The thought of seeing her in a casket simultaneously made him nauseous and sent pain searing through his chest, but he had to pay his last respects. He owed her at least that—even if it would cost him dearly.

Matt rubbed his face with his hands. The whole situation was all too familiar. He’d been one of very few people who had known Katherine was sick. She hadn’t even intended to tell him, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew the side effects of chemo. He’d watched her get weaker and weaker, once again powerless to stop the inevitable. On its own, his grief for his father was unbearable, but losing Katherine was like ripping a scab off a large, still raw wound. The anger, sadness, and helplessness enveloping him were familiar, but that didn’t make dealing with those feelings any easier.

Shoulders slumped, he stood from his seat. On his way into the kitchen to clean up, he paused in the hall. The front end needed a run-through, too. His limbs felt frozen. Without any customers, the place felt too empty. Katherine would kill him if he left the place anything less than spotless, though. Torn, he glanced back at the kitchen, then at the cafe. Normally he wasn’t so indecisive, but he felt reluctant to clean either room. All he wanted to do was go home and collapse into bed. Maybe then he’d wake up and discover it’d all been a bad dream.

Danny and his mom were waiting at home for him, though. The thought of his family jolted him into action. They depended on him. He needed to stay strong.

It didn’t take long for him to clean up, even though he took his time. Once he started, he relaxed easily into the familiar ritual. He was suddenly all too aware that the sooner he locked up, the closer he’d be on his way to the wake. There was only so much procrasti-cleaning he could do, though. Squaring his shoulders, he put the mop away and grabbed his keys from the office. He set the alarm, then slipped out into the hot afternoon.

His pickup didn’t have air conditioning. He’d parked in the shady corner of the parking lot earlier that morning. Though it’d been dark when he arrived, the truck rested underneath a sprawling oak. Even though he’d left the windows wide open, when he opened the door, steaming hot air rushed out at him. The sooner he got it moving, the better.

He took the long way home—not that there was really a long way in Watertown. He crossed the small town into the even smaller town of Oakville within just a few minutes. Parking in front of the three-family house where he and his family lived, he shut the engine off. He needed to compose himself before he walked in and Danny saw his face.

The wake would start in just a couple of hours. Everything was happening too quickly. He needed a moment, but life was unrelenting. The best he could do was stop fighting and let himself be carried.

The problem was, he had no idea which direction he should float in.

Steeling himself, he pushed open the car door and got out. As he walked toward the door that led to his apartment, he felt eyes on him. Casually, he glanced up to the third floor. His upstairs neighbor Burton glared down at him through the blinds.

“That old fucker blocked me in again.”

Matt turned toward the door to the first floor apartment, shoulders tense. He did not feel like dealing with Maureen at the moment. If he brushed her off, though, she would take it personally. She and Burton had already dragged him into their war, each trying to force him to pick sides. He had no idea how Switzerland always remained so neutral. Juggling neighbors was hard. Besides, he was inclined to get along with Maureen because she frequently looked after Danny for him.

“What else is new?” he asked, keeping his tone light.

Maureen nodded toward the other side of the house. “So I knocked his garbage over.” She smirked.

Great. Burton would, without a doubt, blame Danny. Every time Matt’s little brother played outside, Burton made an effort to intimidate him back inside. The old fucker was territorial and mean. Matt opened his mouth, then shut it. Reminding Maureen that she had other neighbors would do no good. He’d have to remember to clean up the mess as soon as she went inside. He climbed the steps to his door and put a hand on the knob.

“Want a cigarette?” Maureen asked, holding out the pack to him.

He considered it. A cigarette would help soothe his nerves. But he’d promised Danny he would never smoke again, and he intended to keep that promise—even if his mother didn’t. “I’ve got a wake to get to.”

Maureen’s lips twitched to the side and her eyebrows slanted. “Sorry to hear that.” She took a drag from her cigarette. “I’ll catch you later, then,” she said, exhaling smoke as she spoke.

Closing the door behind him, Matt climbed the flight of stairs that led to the final door to his apartment. They were steep, creaking and groaning beneath him. He still thought the placement of the stairs was odd, but he was glad that there were two doors separating him from his neighbors.

As soon as he opened the door, Danny flung himself into his arms. “Matty,” his little brother said affectionately. The kid hadn’t hit puberty yet, and his voice was still childlike. Soon that would change, though.

“Is Mom . . . ?” Matt let the question hang in the air.

Danny nodded. “She said to get her up before the, well, you know.” He looked down at the floor.

Matt knelt in front of him. “You don’t have to go, if you don’t want to.” He considered for a moment. “But you’d have to hang out outside the funeral home—unless you want to stay with Maureen.”

His little brother shook his head rapidly. “I’ll bring my Gameboy.”

Matt smiled. The Gameboy Advance had been his, from his own childhood. Despite its age, Danny loved the Pokemon Red and Super Mario Bros. games that Matt had played at his age. He was glad he’d held onto it. Neither he or his mother could afford to get Danny the latest Nintendo handheld device, and definitely not something as expensive as an iPad. But if the kid knew the difference, he didn’t let on. Danny was a good boy.

Straightening, Matt glanced around the kitchen. Cereal bowls from that morning were still on the table, soggy Os floating in probably rancid milk. He sighed. “You’ve got to remember to clean up, Danny.” Though he hated that his little brother had joined the Take Care of Mom club, eleven was old enough to put a dish in the sink.

After he rinsed the bowls out and set them in the sink to soak, Matt headed into the bathroom. “I’ll be out in a few. Wake Mom up,” he called over his shoulder.

 He pulled into the funeral home’s lot and followed one of the usher’s directions into a parking spot. “Danny,” he said, turning in his seat. His little brother sat bent over his Gameboy. “It’s too hot to stay in the car while we’re inside so go sit in the shade over there.” He pointed to a grassy area. A bench sat underneath a tree. From there, engrossed in his game, Danny probably wouldn’t even remember that he was at a funeral home. Or so Matt hoped.

Matt unbuckled his seat belt and slid out of the car. At some point, he’d have to stop babying his little brother. He knew that. But he’d never forget the look on Danny’s face when they first walked into another room in another funeral home, six years earlier. Matt hadn’t even been prepared for how their dad would look, the once tan skin ashen and flat. Their father had looked like a sleeping statue, a parody of himself.

Shaking the memories away, Matt went around to his mother’s side of the car. He opened her door and offered her his arm. She glanced up at him from beneath thinning lashes, her eyes somber.

“You can hang out with Danny, if you want,” he said gently.

Relief flickered across her face for a moment, then she shook her head. She lifted her chin. “Katherine did so much for you—for us,” Emily said. She clasped his arm and climbed out of the car, grimacing in pain at his touch. Grief had not been kind to her. Where she’d once been strong, Fibromyalgia wracked her nerves, the stress of losing her husband aggravating her illness.

Still, he was able to lead her into the funeral home without much trouble. He started to guide her to a seat, but she shook her head. Nodding, he led her toward the line. It was long.

While they waited, he tried to look anywhere but the casket. The room was crowded with people, many of the faces familiar. He glanced at the line of family members receiving condolences. He’d only met Katherine’s brother Noah once. He could only assume the woman standing next to him was his wife. He knew Katherine hadn’t exactly seen eye to eye with her family, but he’d never learned why. He was pretty sure that, if Katherine could have it her way, none of them would be at the wake or funeral.

The line of mourners moved forward, rapidly passing time shoving Matt closer to the casket. He forced himself to focus on something else as he moved his feet.
Next to Mr. and Mrs. Ellis stood their daughters and son. Their oldest daughter, he knew, was a relatively successful theatre actress out in New York City. Their son was a teenager who regularly got into trouble, though. He’d barely graduated high school, but only because he preferred to smoke pot and snort pills in the school bathroom. Katherine was not fond of either Mia or Leo.

But she’d loved her other niece.

Matt’s eyes fell on the young woman named Rowan. He’d never met her, but he felt as if he knew her. As he took in the sight of her, his breath caught in his throat. The dress she wore hugged her curves, its pencil skirt shape falling to just above her knees. Though the neckline reached her collarbone, parts of the dress that stretched across her breastbone were tastefully cut out in three diamond shapes. Light brown hair fell in waves down to her waist. She was stunning—much more so than the photos on Katherine’s desk hinted at.

Pale blue eyes met his from across the room. Recognition flashed across her face. Her eyes widened. He smiled, starting to lift a hand. Rowan’s eyes narrowed in a hard glare. Her lips twitched in distaste.

Turning around, he glanced about for the object of her anger. No one in the vicinity seemed to even notice her, though. He glanced back at her. She was definitely glaring at him.

And she wasn’t happy.

Matt took an involuntary step back. The line moved forward—Murphy’s Law. He realized that his mom was eyeing him expectantly, one brow lifted in question. For once, his mother was more possessed than he was. He shook his head at himself, then joined her. Throwing a glance at the casket, he tried to decide what he was going to do once up there.

People knelt, bowed their heads, and after a few seconds, made the sign of the cross. Then they stood up. Though his father had been raised Jewish, Matt’s parents had basically raised him Protestant. All that came to an end six years before. He knew Katherine’s family was far from religious—never mind Catholic—so the ritual seemed even more impersonal to him.

What he really wanted to do was shake her awake and take her out for a coffee, escaping from the too warm room and all the formalities. The thought was absurd, but there it was.

Suddenly it was his turn.

He hadn’t noticed his mother go ahead of him. She stood off to the side, waiting for him.

Matt wiped the palms of his hands on his worn black Dickies. He stepped forward. Swallowing hard against the dry knot in his throat, he knelt down in front of the casket. He found himself staring into Katherine’s arm. Quickly he bowed his head.

He didn’t know how to pray, or if he should even bother. He had no idea what happened after life. Heart thudding in his chest, he tried to think of what he’d want to say to Katherine if he’d had the chance.

I’m sorry, he blurted into the spaces of his mind. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry—

Someone in the line behind him cleared their throat. Matt’s head snapped up. With a final nod, he jumped away from the casket and joined his mom.

She gave his arm a squeeze.

Together, they turned toward Katherine’s family.

“I’m so sorry,” Emily said, clasping Noah’s hand.

The man nodded his thanks. The bitter, sticky scent of marijuana oozed off of him. His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy. In fact, Matt noticed as he moved down the line shaking hands, the entire Ellis family smelled like weed. A smile tugged at his lips but he forced his face to remain blank. Part of him wished they’d invited him to spark up. The scent was so strong, it almost knocked him over. All of them were engulfed in it—except for Rowan.

He stopped in front of her. She smelled clean, a light fragrance hovering around her like an aura, enveloping him in soothing warmth. Standing next to her family, she was a complete contrast—in more than one way. Her father and brother, for example, wore rumpled jeans. Rowan stood out in her funeral black. And while her family’s eyes were bloodshot, relaxed smiles painted their faces. Her eyes were red and swollen, and her mouth tugged down in a frown.

So maybe she hadn’t been glaring at him after all. Her family appeared almost jovial. No wonder she looked so pissed.

He held out his hand to her. “I’m Matt,” he said.

She wrapped her arms around herself. “I know who you are.” Her tone was sharp.

He blinked. Okay. He wouldn’t take it personally. She’d just lost her aunt, after all. “Katherine really loved you,” he offered. “She talked about you all the time.”

For a moment, Rowan’s face softened. A smile lit up her face. Then fresh tears filled her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

She gazed at him, a mixture of emotions playing off her face—feelings he couldn’t read.

He stood there, feeling more awkward with each second that passed. His feet felt rooted to the floor, though. Something about her drew him in. It was familiar, almost as if they knew each other. But he’d never met her. Only through Katherine’s stories did he know that she made delicious pastries and that her face turned bright red when she swore. But still. He felt an almost relief in her presence, the same kind that came from being reunited with someone you love and haven’t seen in a long time.

It was ridiculous. He didn’t believe in instalove. The crazy thing was, though, that for a second, she looked like she felt something too.

Then the mask slipped back over her face. Her eyes narrowed, guarded.

He needed to say something. People behind him pressed closer. He was holding the line up. He should tell a funny story about Katherine, bring that smile back again. Give her something to carry with her. Blank static filled his mind, though. He’d spent the last two years working with Katherine, yet he couldn’t recall a single moment. His pulse echoed in his ears. He realized that he might just be having a panic attack. The wake was proving to be too much for him.

Resolving to find her again before he left, he mumbled another quick sorry, then hurried away. He retreated to a seat at the back of the wide room. Then he cursed himself.

He’d had a chance to pay it forward, to spread some of Katherine’s kindness toward him to her niece. And he’d botched it—completely. Bringing his hands to his face, he bent over. Suddenly, he needed air. He stood and headed toward the exit.

Just One More Minute

🧁 enemies to friends to lovers
🧁 small town
🧁 bakery
🧁 healing together
🧁 diverse characters
🧁 group of friends

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Just One More Minute, Chapter 1

Rowan peered into the oven, her hand guarded by a thick oven mitt. The scent of chocolate wafted toward her. Though the brownies smelled done, the slightly chocolate-coated toothpick in her free hand told her otherwise. “Just one more minute,” she decided. Pushing the pan back inside, she closed the door.

Brownies were hardly a healthy dinner, but she’d had a long night at work. Usually she didn’t mind her job waitressing tables at the diner. Sean’s regular crowd gently teased her but left generous tips. But Sean’s was also right off the highway, and every once in a while they got drunk strangers. Her soiled clothing was currently cycling through its second run in her old washing machine. After being vomited on, anyone would need a good dose of chocolate.

And wine.

Maybe it was a sign that she needed to get out of waitressing. The problem was, she had no idea what she should do instead. She’d finished her A.S. in May. Given her experience, she could apply for a management position at a restaurant. The pay would be decent, but she just wasn’t sure that she wanted to work holidays and weekends for the rest of her life.

Sighing, she turned away from the oven and grabbed her notepad. With a swipe of her pen, she adjusted the time on the recipe that she was working on. In the three years since she’d started her blog, she had yet to post a recipe for brownies. She was about to remedy that.

Her blog was also an option. Because of it, she earned a pretty decent side income. Between affiliate sales and paid product reviews, she was able to pay her rent, and her waitressing income took care of her bills and other expenses. Now that she was out of school, if she quit her job and focused on her blog full-time, she could easily turn that income into a living. The idea of sitting in her kitchen all day didn’t really appeal to her, though. She liked bantering with her customers at Sean’s. Though her readers left great comments and busted her balls just fine, it wasn’t the same as face to face interaction.

She had no idea what she wanted.

The timer on her oven went off. Her minute was up. She pulled the pan of brownies out of the oven and set it on top of the burners of the stove. Immediately she turned the oven off. Despite the sun having set hours ago, the temperature outside hovered in the upper eighties. It was going to be a brutal summer.

Her father would tell her that she was crazy for baking in eighty-degree weather—and that she needed to add something special to those brownies. She rolled her eyes at the thought, then frowned, pushing away the memories of her childhood. She’d moved to New Jersey almost the second she graduated high school, and she’d never looked back. She was over it and her parents. Mostly.

The brownies had to cool before she could cut them, so she left the oven and ambled into her living room area. As she crossed the small studio, she glanced at a photo on the wall of her aunt Katherine. Her heart twisted. She hadn’t seen her aunt in two years. They talked on the phone occasionally, but things weren’t the same. Too much was unspoken between them.

Closer to the air conditioner, she felt the sweat on her face drying. She sat down on her futon, tucking her legs underneath her. She drummed her fingers on her thigh. She didn’t have cable, and opening up her laptop and surfing YouTube would only make her feel guilty that she wasn’t working on her blog post instead. She bit her lip. Maybe it was time to get cable.

Her phone vibrated against the worn coffee table. Frowning, Rowan leaned forward for it. It was almost midnight. She didn’t recognize the number. Silencing the phone, she figured someone had probably dialed wrong—it happened.

Almost a minute later, a notification flashed across the screen. One new voicemail. Her frown deepened. She’d had enough of drunks for one night. Reaching for the phone, she plucked it off the table. Without listening to the voicemail, she deleted it.

The brownies had cooled for long enough. Hopping off the futon, she returned to the oven. Knife in hand, she brushed a strand of mousy brown hair from her face and began slicing the brownies free. She stifled a yawn. She’d better wrap up her brownie fix soon. She had a morning shift at the diner.

Balancing a plate of square brownies in one hand, she trotted to the refrigerator. She set the plate down and poured herself a glass of milk. She plucked three brownies from the plate and carried her feast back to the futon.

It didn’t take long for her to eat them. With a sigh, she brought her dishes to the sink. Then she opened up the futon. Stripping down to just her tank top and panties, she lay down. She stared into the darkness for a long time before sleep came.

It was Friday night.

 When Rowan woke early the next morning, she had another voicemail from the same number. She stared at the screen of her phone for a long moment. The number had a Connecticut area code. While that didn’t necessarily mean anything—she’d bought her phone when she was still living in her home state—she couldn’t ignore the alarm bells going off in her head. Still, she didn’t have time. It was going to have to wait.

She dressed quickly and, on her way out, grabbed a brownie for breakfast. She arrived at Sean’s just as her boss of the same name was unlocking the door.

“Morning,” she greeted him.

He gave her a half grunt, half sigh in response, then a crooked smile. Pushing the door open, he motioned for her to go first. As she passed him, she couldn’t help but notice that his eyes were underlined by dark circles. His long hours at the diner were taking their toll. He’d never been a morning person, but she knew he’d stayed long after they closed the night before, prepping for the next day.

As far as she knew, she was the only server he’d scheduled for the morning. Usually, she appreciated the gesture. Though she knew it was really because he knew his sunrise customers preferred her to the other servers, it was nice to be valued. But early Saturday mornings were always slow. There was no one on their way to work. The sleepy little town caught up on rest and yard work on weekends.

With a sigh, she tied on her apron and prepared for the long day ahead. Even though she and Sean would be the only ones drinking it for the better part of the morning, she made coffee. She set tables with paper placemats and rolled silverware. When she was finished, she brought her boss a cup of coffee and perched on the counter next to him. They sat in silence for several long minutes. While she watched him prepare the register and type up the specials for the day, her thoughts again turned to her impending future. She loved the diner, but it wasn’t exactly a career.

Just before he flipped the sign to open for the day, Sean gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Everything okay, kiddo?”

“Man, I must look bad.” Though Rowan often suspected that he considered her like a daughter, he rarely asked about her personal life. She never asked about his, either, though. She knew he’d come to New Jersey a stray, too, but didn’t know the circumstances.

“You look like you’re in deep thought.” He gave her a smile, the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes crinkling.

She bit her lip. He was the closest thing she had to a father figure. Maybe he could give her advice. Taking a sip of her coffee, she watched as he sank into a chair at one of the tables. “How did you decide that you wanted to run a diner for the rest of your life?”

His eyebrows rose. “The rest of my life? Are you trying to punish me?”

“Well, you know what I mean.” Her stomach rumbled. Suddenly she regretted having eaten nothing but brownies in the last twenty-four hours.

One of his eyebrows twitched. “I didn’t really know,” he hedged, hitting the print button on his laptop. Underneath the counter, the printer coughed and spurted. The sheets that would become table tents for the day’s specials spewed onto the tray.

“You ended up here somehow,” she persisted. “What did you decide to do after finishing high school?”

Sean collected the pile of copies and began assembling them. “I didn’t.”

“You didn’t finish high school?” she teased.

“No.” His brown eyes met hers.

Feeling her cheeks flush, she managed a small “Oh.”

“Rowan, those were different days. My grades weren’t the best, and I was always getting into trouble for minor things. They didn’t really know what to do with me, to tell you the truth. So I left one day and never went back.” He finished putting together the table tents and began dispersing them to the tables.

She sighed. “I just don’t know what to do,” she said.

“Well, you graduated high school and college, so you’re two steps ahead of me.” His eyes twinkled.

The door opened and the white-haired Mr. and Mrs. Kostenko shuffled in for their morning coffee fix. Rowan grinned at them in greeting and grabbed two mugs. Her day had begun.

 Halfway through her shift, she paused for a short break. As she passed Sean at the grill, he handed her a plate of food. “Eat.”

With a nod, she carried her meal to a table tucked into a dim corner of the diner. Lifting her fork, she also slid her phone out of her apron. It was the weekend and she was officially done with school. She shouldn’t spend it alone.

She meant to text a friend from the community college she’d attended, but froze. There were two more voicemails from the Connecticut number. Dread pitted in her stomach. One or two calls she could write off as a wrong number. Four were a whole other story.

Someone was trying to get ahold of her.

Glancing at Sean’s back, she lifted the phone to her ear. “Hello, this is Attorney Damien Ward again,” the voicemail began. “I’m looking for Ms. Rowan Ellis. It is extremely important that you contact me as soon as possible regarding an urgent family matter.” He left his phone number and encouraged her to call him back immediately.

She bit her lip. It sounded important, but she couldn’t discern the nature of the call from his voice. He seemed calm and collected, not the bearer of bad news. And though his Connecticut area code made her inclined to take him seriously, there was a part of her that realized he could be a scam artist.

But scam artists didn’t call repeatedly in the same day, at least not in her experience. Usually they waited twenty-four hours, or called from different numbers without leaving voicemails.

Maybe it wasn’t anything to worry about. If something had happened to her parents or siblings, one of her family members would have called. Not some lawyer. At least, she thought so. Sometimes her family acted so indifferent toward her, she supposed it was possible that they would alert her passively.

The lawyer had said “urgent family matter.” Maybe her parents were getting divorced. But they wouldn’t need her approval for that.

Her brow furrowed. There was that time her father had a questionable relationship with one of his students. A professor at Naugatuck Valley in Waterbury, he’d been spending a lot of time with an eighteen-year-old in one of his philosophy classes. Though rumors flying around said they were having sex in his office, the investigation had been dropped and he’d been cleared. At the time, Rowan’s mother hadn’t even been jealous. She suspected her parents had somewhat of an open marriage. Maybe something like that was going on again, and her father had to go to court.

She wanted nothing to do with it.

Picking up her fork again, she decided not to call Ward back.

 Her shift at Sean’s ended at one in the afternoon. She escaped into the steamy summer air and headed toward her car. With the rest of the day wide open, she should hit the beach or do something equally relaxing. Every bone in her body ached for a nap, though. She’d only slept four hours the night before.

She slid into her car and gingerly touched the steering wheel. Grimacing, she pulled her hand away. She turned the key in the ignition and blasted the air conditioning. It didn’t take long for cold air to come out, but it would take a few minutes until the steering wheel was cool enough to touch. She pulled her phone out of the back pocket of her pants and reached for the cord that connected her phone to the stereo. The screen of the phone lit up, the familiar Connecticut number flashing.

Rowan sighed. As much as she didn’t want to get involved with her family’s affairs, she felt bad for wasting the lawyer’s time. It wasn’t his fault that her family was a train wreck. She pressed the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

“Oh!” He sounded surprised. “I was going to leave you another voicemail.” He chuckled. “My name is Attorney Damien Ward. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you.”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve been working.” Testing the steering wheel, she deemed it cool enough to grip. Holding the phone to her ear with one hand, she used her other hand to guide the car out of Sean’s parking lot. Though it was illegal to drive in New Jersey while using a phone without a hands-free earpiece, she’d mastered the art of dropping her phone at the first sight of a patrol car.

“Are you working now?” the lawyer asked in his smooth baritone.

“No.” She turned onto the street and headed toward her apartment.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news.” He hesitated for a moment.

Rowan’s heart pounded in her chest. Suddenly she wasn’t so sure that it had anything to do with her family’s antics. Something awful had happened.

“I’m your aunt Katherine’s attorney. I handle her business affairs, and her estate,” he continued.

Rowan’s heart dropped into her stomach. She swerved onto the shoulder of the road, throwing the car into park.

“Your aunt wanted me to notify you immediately, should anything happen to her. I’m so sorry, Ms. Ellis. Katherine passed away last night.” His voice, filled with regret, was suddenly drowned out by a high pitched ringing in her ears.

A sob escaped her lips. Not Katherine. Though they had their problems, she loved her aunt. Katherine had been the only member of her family to treat her like a normal person. It couldn’t be true. “How?” she gasped.

The attorney sighed. “Cancer,” he said, voice breaking. “She didn’t want anyone to know.”

Tears gushed down her cheeks. She sat numbly, the engine still running. Cold air blasted against her face, but she didn’t feel it.

“The wake is tomorrow night,” Damien Ward said. “I’ve made all of the arrangements according to her final wishes. I’m so sorry, Ms. Ellis.”

Rowan suppressed the urge to scream. This couldn’t be real. Instead, she slammed her fist on the steering wheel. Pain jolted through her arm, but it was nothing compared to the ache in her heart. She would never get the chance to make up with her aunt. Suddenly she felt childish for running away. At the time, she’d felt double-crossed. That job at her aunt’s bakery was supposed to be hers. It was the whole reason she’d gone to a technical high school and studied culinary arts. But her aunt had given it to someone else instead, and Rowan had decided to move on, out of state. She’d barely spoken to Katherine over the last two years. Now she would never make amends. Her shoulders slumped. She’d been so, so stupid.

“Ms. Ellis?” The lawyer’s tone was gentle. “Your aunt wanted to make sure that you were taken care of in her absence. She’s left her house to you. I can meet you before the wake tomorrow to give you the keys.”

She barely heard him. It was all too much. She didn’t want the house. She wanted Katherine.

“I’m so sorry,” he said again. “I know this is a lot to absorb. But she made it very clear that I was to tell you about the house right away, so that you wouldn’t have to stay with your parents.”

She almost laughed. Even in the afterlife, her aunt was still her ally. Guilt roiled through her stomach. She’d been a stupid teenager. And now she would never be able to fix things.

Read Chapter 2

Tattooed Heart, Chapter 1

“I’m curious about Goldie’s friend,” Tall, Dark, and Fine AF said to me, with full eye contact and everything.

I was curious, too—how long could he hold me up against a wall?

It was 100 percent my broken heart talking, and I was 100 percent okay with that.

Chapter 1: Big Gun

Sabella

My dad handed me my first tattoo gun when I was fourteen.

“I can’t reach this spot. You do it.”

I laughed. I thought he was kidding. The chicken drumsticks he’d taught me how to season baked in the oven, and the pot of rice and beans he’d also walked me through simmered on the stove. He was supposed to be teaching me how to cook—“Since your mama sure ain’t,” he said.

He took off his shirt and I wrinkled my nose at his hairy armpits. My mom was definitely not the picture of emotional stability, and she’d never teach me how to cook, but she had me shaving at ten and doing my own nails at thirteen. It only highlighted the fact that I lived five out of seven days a week with a very hairy man.

A man who wanted me to ink his latest girlfriend’s name on his ribs, on the opposite side of where my mom’s name had faded into his skin.

“Mira,” he said, putting the tattoo gun in my hand. “You just stretch the skin como esto, and trace.” He demonstrated, stretching the skin on my arm with one hand and drawing a butter knife over it with the other. “It’s easy. Siéntate.”

I scoffed. “No, Papi! What if I mess it up?”

“It’s just some letters. A line here, a line there.”

I gave him a flat look. “That’s cursive.”

“See? You don’t even have to get it straight.” He waved me on. “You can do it. It’s just like all the pictures you draw, except on skin.”

And I’d thought it was exciting when he let me dice the onion for the rice.

“Okay,” I said, drawing out the word while I gave him one last look—to check whether he’d lost his damn mind.

He gave me a nod, wearing the same look of paternal pride and patience he’d rocked while teaching me how to ride a bike. “It don’t matter if you mess it up, because I’m old.”

I grabbed his insulin kit from the top of the fridge.

“I’m not having a hypoglycemic episode,” he said gently.

“I know that.” Unzipping the kit, I sat back down at the table, placing prep pads on a square of table that looked clean. “I’m aiming for a zero infections streak.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and melodious, filling the kitchen as I carefully wrote his flavor-of-the-week’s name on his skin in swooping cursive, pointedly not looking at my mom’s name. He gave me a thumbs up, I pressed my foot down on the pedal, and there was no going back.

I’ve been tattooing ever since.

By the time Goldie found me, I was tattooing in our kitchen but winning big awards. Goldie gave me a chance to really fly, and for that, I’ll be forever grateful. Which is why, when she needed to move back home to Stagwood Falls, I went with her.

Well, that and my thirty-five-year-old, freshly divorced ass needed to get the hell out of the city. Almost divorced. Thanks to Connecticut’s relaxed laws, all I needed was for my ex to sign the papers, and I’d be free. Problem was, he went radio silent the second I left.

Stagwood Falls (population 1,500) was the opposite of the city I grew up in (population 150,000). Main Street looked like the set of a movie—very Instagram-ready. My girls in the city definitely would approve. I was sitting in a bar called The Main Idea—also super cute. It had an arcade in the back and more IPAs than I could ever hope to memorize. Their poor bartender. I’d grown up on blunts and jungle juice, so the novelty of the whole hipster craze hadn’t gotten to me yet.

Goldie, on the other hand, couldn’t roll her eyes far enough in the back of her head.

“Girl,” I said. “Your face is gonna get stuck like that.”

Then I realized she’d just spotted David, her least favorite person at the time.

“You didn’t say he was that hot,” I hissed. David had that olive-skinned, melty-eyed Italian thing going for him, with barber-bladed eyebrows nearly as thick as my thighs, and a hell of a smirk. He only had eyes for Goldie as he neared our table, and I knew my best friend was in trouble.

All that Italian deliciousness quite literally paled in comparison to the guy with him, apparently a close friend if I went by the way they leaned into each other, murmuring something while David ogled Goldie. Tall, dark, handsome, and nameless’s gaze swept from her to me, freezing me in place with dark brown eyes the same deep shade as his skin. They must’ve gone to the same barber, because his brows and beard were just as carefully maintained, all sharp lines to highlight prominent cheekbones that made me want to lick them. Yes, lick. I was that starved. I couldn’t ignore the meal in front of me, not when he walked with ease, carrying broad shoulders that I immediately pictured my hands gripping. He floated to our table effortlessly, as if gliding to me on a trajectory I could neither see nor avoid. While Goldie and David glared at each other, he took my hand in his, and I felt like I’d been electrocuted, nearly missing his name.

“Benton,” he said with a smile that made me forget mine. “Por favor, dime tu nombre.”

My heart nearly stopped. Since pulling up on Goldie’s building a couple weeks earlier, I hadn’t heard a word of Spanish.

“I did a lot of my social worker practice hours in Waterbury,” he explained. “Lots of Puerto Ricans.”

I squinted up at him. “How did you know?” Puerto Ricans tended to spot each other instantly. It was some kind of pheromone. He looked Black, but on the islands, Boricuas came in all shades—even ginger.

“I might’ve looked you up on the ’Gram,” he admitted. “You’ve got a little flag in your bio.”

“Looked me up?” I inquired.

“Caught again.” He chuckled. “I saw you outside while I was working, and I got curious about Goldie’s friend.”

“Curious, hmm?” I sat up straighter. I was curious, too, about very scientific matters like, how long could he hold me up against a wall with those ultra-defined arms?

It was 100 percent the heartbreak talking, and I was 100 percent okay with that.

And Goldie was 100 percent walking to the arcade in the back of the bar—with David. I checked my dark red lipstick in my phone’s camera, then turned to his best friend. “Wanna buy me a drink?”

I hated to waste an outfit.

I looked damn good in my cropped Bitch Craft T-shirt that just read Bitch after I’d gotten my hands on it. Before that night, I was not a one-night-stand kind of girl. That didn’t mean I couldn’t break that rule with Benton. It’d been a good six months since I’d let my ex-husband touch me.

I took a moment to appreciate the view as Benton carried our drinks over. He wore his button-down’s sleeves rolled up, exposing dark muscular forearms wrapped in a swooping cursive tattoo I couldn’t read from that far away. His dress pants hugged his ass, and his beard hugged his jawline. I wanted to koala-hug his body.

I moved over to the same side of the table, making sure to touch his hand as I accepted the drink.

He gave me a knowing, cocky look. “Do you want to actually drink these, or do you want to get out of here?”

We were on the same page. Good. I didn’t need to know about his childhood or what his future plans were. I just needed some dick. Lord knew I’d wasted far too much time on romance.

“So where’s your place?” I asked as we stumbled onto the sidewalk hand in hand. I liked the way our hands fit, how his thick fingers threaded through mine.

He stopped fast and I nearly crashed into him. “I figured yours is closer.”

I laughed. “Sure, if you wanna hang with Goldie’s grandpa.”

My living situation started off a little awkward, but I’d grown up around men. Goldie’s Poppy was a sweet old man, and probably fast asleep for the night, so there was no way I was bringing a guy home. It was way too awkward.

Benton hesitated.

“What, do you live with your mom or something?” I teased. Not that I cared. Until recently, I’d still lived with my dad. For most thirty-somethings, that was probably weird, but not this Boricua.

Benton shook his head.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I live with David’s mom, okay?” Benton said. “So no, we can’t go to my place.”

There we were, in the middle of the sidewalk, debating where to bang like a couple of teenagers. I laughed.

“You don’t have to be a dick about it,” he said, pulling away from me.

“I’m not,” I said through my laughter. “Come on, Benton, it’s funny. We’re like a couple of horny teenagers.”

He scowled. “I’m a grown man.”

I had the giggles so bad. “Come on. Let me buy you another drink.”

He waved me off. “You know what, I’m good.”

I watched as he walked away, his shirt hugging the muscles of his back.

“It’s not a big deal,” I called after him. Either he didn’t hear me, or he didn’t want to, because he kept going until he was out of my sight.

Rolling my eyes, I went in the opposite direction and decided I was already over Stagwood Falls.

One Year Later

I hadn’t meant to stay. I’d planned on getting Goldie settled in and then figuring out my next move. Maybe I’d go back to the city, where I could hopefully avoid my ex. Or maybe I’d get my own place in town, if I liked it enough. So far, I didn’t really like it.

The town was cute, don’t get me wrong, but small, and people stared. It was hard to fade into anonymous heartbreak recovery when everywhere I went, people eyed me. Of course, none of them knew I left New Haven because I got dumped. They were staring at my tattoos, fishnet, and boots. I felt like someone had plucked off all my petals, leaving me stripped of the things I’d once wanted so badly. It felt like everyone could see the grief etched deep into my soul.

So I poured my energy into tattooing, all the while feeling like I needed more. I needed to get back to my roots, to hold a paintbrush in my hand and let everything I felt pour out of me, onto canvas. The problem was, I was booked solid. Since Goldie transplanted her tattoo shop Touch of Gold from the city to Stagwood Falls, my regulars were getting more comfortable with driving out to see me. Plus, we’d been expanding in our new county. Not a bad problem to have, but I wanted time to paint. I needed time to process my pain, but painting didn’t pay the way tattooing did. The only way to squeeze in my hobbies as an adult were to make them part of my work. And I had come up with the perfect solution.

I just needed to get my friends on board.

I needed a win, something that was mine. Goldie had her shop—I was happier than ever tattooing under her roof, and she involved me in more than usual, but it was her shop. I had to tread carefully, balancing friendship with work.

I stood in David’s kitchen, slicing a lemon for my vodka. Or I was supposed to be. It was just us girls for the moment, the guys still in the living room fussing over David’s new gaming setup, and I was using the break from a bloodthirsty game of Cards Against Humanity to work on my magnum opus: a text I’d been drafting for six months. Drafting and dreading. I’d tried being nice. I’d tried giving him space. I’d even tried being stern—using those boundaries that my Instagram therapist was always talking about.

She wasn’t my actual therapist. She was just an account I followed.

“At least AI can’t replace me,” Goldie said. She finished off the faux vodka Collins I’d made us—I used lemonade instead of lemon juice, simple syrup, and club soda—and held her glass in my face.

“Knife,” I reminded her, giving her a sharp look.

“What knife? Less texting, more slicing,” she said, always with the big sister energy.

Goldie and I couldn’t be more different. She was raised by her grandparents, I was raised by my dad. She was all Black, I was half Puerto Rican, half white. She’d left marketing in her mid-twenties to become a tattoo artist, and I’d grown up with a tattoo gun in my hand. Despite our different paths, we were both driven women determined to make it in a male-dominated world, which was why I liked her the moment I met her. Leaving New Haven and coming to Stagwood Falls with her was simple for me: I didn’t want to work at anyone else’s shop, and I definitely didn’t want to stay in a city full of reminders of my biggest failure.

“Until they invent some vending machine thing where you select your piece and it tattoos it on, right then and there, like a 3D printer,” Kinsley—her actual little sister—said.

“Don’t say that.” Goldie fake vomited.

“Oh, it’ll happen,” I said, using the ten-inch knife to twist out the seeds from each slice of lemon.

“Damn, girl, easy with that thing,” Goldie said, “and whose side are you on? Artists or robots?”

“I’m just saying.” Dropping the slices into our glasses, I grabbed ice and the bottles of vodka and lemonade. “It’ll never replace having a real, talented artist design a real, personal piece, though.”

“You say that,” Kinsley said darkly, “but what about all the generative art apps?”

“Hurry with that vodka,” Goldie pleaded. “We need to get past stoned, eerily philosophic Kinsley and bring out drunk, dancing Kinsley.”

“I heard drunk dancing,” Benton said, shimmying into the kitchen. “What’re we dancing to?” Even though I was closer, he took Kinsley’s hand and spun her into a dip.

“We’re dancing?” David pulled Goldie into him, tipping her chin up for a kiss.
Couples. Kill me.

Grabbing my phone, I threw on the last thing I’d been listening to.

“Doja Cat? Really?” Benton complained without even looking at me.

“Whatchu got against Doja Cat?” Antoni backed up on me until his ass almost touched my thigh, then dropped it low, “twerking” in a squat. He was less twerking and more just shaking.

I shoved him away, laughing. “You’re doing it wrong. Let me show you.”

“Please,” he wheezed. “I think I pulled something.” He straightened, dusting his hands on his jeans.

Placing my hands on my hips, I demonstrated. “It’s all in the hips, li’l Ant. Not your back. You were on your way to the ER.”

“Are we learning stripper moves, or are we playing cards?” Benton interrupted, tapping his watch.

“You got something against sex workers? Besides, I was in cheer, not on a pole,” I told him. “Have another drink, or hit that.” I nodded to the blunt Kinsley held a lighter to.

“Some of us have work in the morning,” he said, still not looking at me.

I rolled my eyes. “Tattooing is work. Not my fault the three of you got suckered into the nine-to-five life.”

“We all work hard,” Goldie intervened, “which is why we agreed we need low-key Thursday night game nights, spending quality time together, sans sniping. Right?” She gave me a stern look. I’d never told her about the night Benton and I met, but she was getting more and more curious every time the two of us went at each other.

“Right.” Downing my vodka, I gathered my courage. “Speaking of work, I want to run something past you guys.”

“Running man? I only just got the hang of twerking,” Antoni shouted over the music. He held onto the counter, practicing what I’d shown him and still doing it wrong.

I turned down the music and cleared my throat. “I need all of your help,” I said, looking pointedly at Benton. “Even you.”

“I see we’ve moved on to the drunken dramatics portion of the evening,” he muttered.

I stood taller to show him I wasn’t drunk, wobbling only a little.

“What’s up?” Goldie asked.

My best friend. She’d stood by my side through everything the past six months. Every time I second-guessed myself, thinking I’d made the wrong choice, she reminded me that I’d absolutely chosen right. I’d been more than happy to return the favor by supporting her move to Stagwood Falls, then seeing her through almost losing her building and David. We always had each other’s backs, which is why I had no doubts she’d have mine.

“I want to teach a community art class,” I announced, “and at the end of it, throw an art show.”

All five of them stared at me.

“Like…a festival?” Goldie asked.

“Nothing big, obviously,” I said quickly. “Just something to showcase the pieces my students work on. Our students,” I added. “We could host it at town hall, or even the shop…”

“I’m still on ‘community’ and ‘class,’” Antoni said. “You want this to be a legit town event?”

“Very much,” I said, clasping my hands. “Like for the community. Kind of like an art therapy thing.”

Benton cleared his throat. “You can’t practice without being licensed.”

“I know that,” I told him. “I’m not looking to give anyone therapy. I’m thinking more like in a therapeutic vein.” I struggled for words. Maybe I was drunk.

Antoni scratched his head. “What’s the difference?”

“Therapeutic,” Kinsley repeated. “That too big a word for you?”

“I like big words and I cannot lie.” With a devious grin, he aimed his terrible twerking at her.

“Get your cute li’l white butt outta here,” she said, laughing. I caught the way her gaze lingered on him, though.

“So what do you guys think?” I looked from face to face, already brimming with plans swirling through my head. Ever since I’d first thought of the idea, I practically had the curriculum laid out. I couldn’t wait to get started.

“How will it bring in money?” David asked. “Who’s going to pay for the supplies and stuff?”

“Money?” I repeated. “I was thinking this could be like a free thing. Everyone’s been on such hard times these past few years. I wanted to give back.” I turned to Benton, the town social worker. Surely, he got it. He was always late to drinks at The Main Idea, always staying behind at town hall to finish up “just one more thing” for one of the town residents. As big a baby as he was, he had an even bigger heart.

As much as I didn’t want to admit it.

“We don’t really have any room in the budget for a new program,” was all he said.

“Seriously, guys?”

But someone—probably Antoni—turned the music back up, and a moment later, I heard the slap of cards being shuffled.

I rubbed my temples. I’d thought I had it in the bag.

“Here,” Goldie said, pressing a fresh drink into my hand.

“You really don’t like my idea?” I asked her.

“It’s not that I don’t like it,” she hedged. “It’s just that so much has happened. We’re still getting on our feet here. I just don’t have the bandwidth. Sorry, girl.” Squeezing my shoulder, she left me to my thoughts to join the rest of the group in the living room.

She was probably right. We both had a lot going on. The guys, too—logically I knew Benton wasn’t giving me a hard time for nothing. They had their hands full trying to keep the mayor from selling the lake out from under the town.

“That’s why we need the arts,” I muttered to the empty kitchen.

Almost empty. Kinsley stood at the sink, washing the cutting board and knife I’d used.

“Oh, I got that,” I said, moving to take her place.

“I don’t mind.” She placed them in the drain and dried her hands. “For what it’s worth, I think it’s a good idea.”

“You’d be the only one,” I said with a sigh.

“Pitch it again, when everyone’s sobered up. Maybe take them one on one, like a strategic conquering.” She laughed. “But don’t give up. You know how stubborn my sister can be. You just have to crack her.”

“She is pretty stubborn,” I agreed. “I don’t know. It’s probably better if I leave it be.”

“Just think about it,” she said. “Now let’s go wreck these motherfuckers in Cards Against Humanity.”

As soon as she left, I pulled my phone out again. My vision blurred, just a little, key phrases jumping out at me.

Six months.
Space.
Please.
Move forward.
Please.
Healthy.

I considered adding one more “please,” then decided I’d already used two too many. Every text I sent always resulted in the same thing: a delivered, then read notification, then no response.

Childishly, he thought if he ignored me and didn’t give me what I needed, I’d change my mind and go back to the city, back to him. The problem with that strategy was, I couldn’t. Not in a million years.

Just like I couldn’t abandon my art program baby. I’d convince my friends that it was a good idea. In a time when everyone was hurting, it was exactly what the town needed.

Goldie was stubborn, but I was stubborn en español.

I held my head and drink high and began plotting my takedown.

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