Come Again

by Kate, Jiffy

  Table of Contents

  Books by Jiffy Kate

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Epilogue

  About The Authors

  An Excerpt from Turn of Fate

  Come Again (French Quarter Novel)

  Copyright © 2018 by Jiffy Kate.

  Jiffy Kate Books, LLC, www.jiffykate.com

  Editing by Nichole Strauss, Insight Editing

  Cover Design and Formatting by Juliana Cabrera, Jersey Girl Design

  Proofreading by Karin Enders

  Cover Model: Stuart Reardon

  First Edition: November 2018

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to retailer and purchase.

  Books by Jiffy Kate

  Finding Focus Series (Complete)

  Finding Focus

  Chasing Castles

  Fighting Fire

  Taming Trouble

  French Quarter Novels

  Blue Bayou

  Come Again

  Table 10 (parts 1-3)

  Turn of Fate

  (previously titled The Other One)

  Watch and See

  Acknowledgements

  Acknowledgements are always hard because we’d never want to miss thanking someone who helped us along the way. So, forgive us if they get lengthy… and on that slim chance we might forget to mention YOU… thank you. Just know we value each of you for who you are.

  To the VIPs in our lives—our kiddos, family, friends, and readers. What is life without amazing people to share it with? This is a lesson Shaw O’Sullivan learns throughout Come Again. We always tend to sneak pieces of ourselves into our books and this one is no different.

  First, we’d like to thank Pamela Stephenson for being our beta reader! She’s always there from the beginning, watching and reading as the story takes shape. We appreciate you, Pamela!!

  We’d also like to thank Nikki, our editor. Thank you for taking on this BEAST and for always helping us make the hard calls when it comes to cutting scenes and making the book the best it can be.

  Our proofreader, friend, and drinking buddy, Mrs. Karin Enders. Thank you for everything! From beta reading to proofreading, we appreciate your time, effort, and camaraderie!

  A shout-out to our friend, Kat Tammen! Thank you for spending an entire day reading this book! We appreciate your feedback and uncanny ability to pick out all the weird words. Love you, babe.

  We’d also like to thank our cover designer and formatter, Julianna. Thank you for making the photo we love work and for making it even better. We love your creativity and attention to detail!

  Also, a huge shout-out to our pimp team—Pamela, Lynette, Megan, Shannon, Candace, Stefanie, Laura, and Debbie. Thank you for always putting your two-cents worth in and giving us a safe place to bounce ideas! We love y’all!

  Thank you to everyone in Jiffy Kate’s Southern Belles. All of you make our days better.

  Now, we hope you enjoy this story of second chances and finding love in the midst of grief.

  I’ve already had my love and now

  that’s gone; there’s no need to try again.

  Prologue

  Avery

  Hard.

  Cold.

  Quiet.

  As I begin to wake and roll from my side onto my back, I groan. The pain in my head is atrocious and images of an angry Brant flash through my mind. He was drunk when he came home last night and our ongoing argument about him coming home late—and never calling to tell me where he is—escalated.

  Slowly, I open my eyes and blink. My right eye is swollen but thankfully I can open it, a little. Craning my neck back, I see the dim light over the stove in the kitchen shining but everything else is bathed in the semi-darkness of early morning.

  The living room floor.

  That’s where I am.

  I had been waiting for Brant and fallen asleep on the couch. When he came home, I woke up and asked him where he’d been and why he hadn’t answered my call.

  I was worried.

  Sue me.

  Hesitantly, I lift my hand and touch my eye, confirming its swollen state. Tears well, threatening to fall as I gently brush my shaky fingers down my cheek, to my nose, and finally coming to rest on my lips. Crusted, dried blood is covering the skin under my nose. Swiping my tongue out to moisten my parched lips, I immediately regret it as the taste of copper hits my taste buds and makes my stomach roll.

  After a few more minutes of taking inventory and gaining my bearings, I finally pull myself up, using the nearby couch for support. The rest of my body is sore, but only from laying on the floor, everything else is intact. No other bruises. Nothing broken.

  What the fuck happened?

  One second, we were having our typical heated discussion. He was admonishing me for being a needy bitch. I was biting my tongue to keep from lashing out at him.

  The yelling isn’t anything new, but it’s not old either. Back in high school, Brant would’ve never thought of raising his voice to me. He worshipped the ground I walked on and I treated him like a king. My friends were constantly swooning over him and telling me how they wished they could find someone like Brant Wilson—star quarterback, valedictorian, golden boy. Granted, we lived in a small, rural town in the middle of nowhere Oklahoma, so the competition was limited, but Brant would’ve been a standout no matter what.

  He wanted it.

  Life.

  Success.

  And all my friends thought I was so lucky, because he also wanted me.

  When Brant came back after he graduated from college and told me about a job offer he got in Houston, and that he wanted me to come with him, I jumped. Head first. No looking back. Sure, I love Oklahoma. I always will. It’s home. But the hustle and bustle of a big city has always called to me, like a beacon to my soul. A few days later, I had quit my job at a local restaurant, packed up my clothes and shoes and a few keepsakes to remind me of home, kissed my mama and daddy goodbye, and drove off into the sunset.

  The yelling started shortly after we got settled in Houston. I realized early on, the more stress Brant was under at work, the more he’d dump it onto me when he got home. But I’ve been patient with him, hoping that my grandmother�
�s favorite line was still true: this too shall pass. I’ve always held onto it and applied to every aspect of my life. Everything is temporary, even this life we’ve been given.

  Recently, things got worse. I took a job working at a boutique with some sweet older ladies, and apparently that was just as good as me slapping Brant in the face. He was offended—incensed. He thought I got the job because I felt he needed my financial help. I won’t lie, I had thought the added income would relieve some of his tension and keep him from stressing so much over this latest upcoming promotion. But in all honesty, I was bored. The apartment is small and there’s only so much cleaning I can do in a day. We’re not married. We don’t have kids. We don’t even have a dog. I had to do something with my time.

  But that was when he started berating and belittling me, especially when I’d offer to take him out to dinner or a movie—always thinking I had an ulterior motive.

  “Do you think I can’t afford to take you out?”

  “Do I not do enough for you?”

  “The bills are always paid.”

  “I take care of you.”

  “What more do you want?”

  And the list goes on and on.

  Something has changed. He never takes me seriously anymore and if we talk at all, it’s always about how he’s going to get to the next level. The Brant I knew and loved in high school, and even college, the one who liked to watch movies with me on the couch or go out for pizza is long gone. He’s been replaced by a money-hungry corporate asshole.

  Tiptoeing down the hall, I walk into the guest bathroom and flip on the light. I squint my eyes until they adjust, blinking several times when my face comes into view.

  The tears I let fall have dripped into the dried blood on my lip. Mixed with the smudged mascara from last night, it makes me look like the zombie cheerleader I dressed up as on Halloween a few years back.

  How the fuck did I get here?

  How the fuck did we get here?

  When I think I hear something from down the hall, I pause with my hand on the faucet, holding my breath, listening to make sure Brant’s not awake. After a few seconds, I ease the water on and grab a washcloth, lightly dabbing at my lip until the blood is gone, leaving behind swollen, split skin.

  My eye is puffy and bruised, but at least the skin is intact.

  There’s also a purple shadow on my cheekbone.

  Staring at my reflection, I allow my mind to hit replay.

  “Why do you always need to know where I’m at, huh? Tell me, Avery. Have I ever fucked around on you?” Brant’s eyes are hazy, but his words are sharp, cutting deep. “I could.” He barks out a harsh laugh. “I could have so much pussy. But I don’t. I don’t because I know you’re here, waiting for me to come home.”

  For a second, I think he’s going to stop there and go pass out in the bedroom, but he doesn’t. He keeps going.

  “I like that, you know?” His hand brushes over my cheek and my body tries to recoil, but I command it to stand firm. I’m no coward. I don’t back down. It’s not in my blood.

  “I won’t be for long,” I tell him, putting as much finality into my words as I can muster. “I’m not going to sit around waiting for you my whole life. This isn’t the life we talked about. It’s not the one you promised.”

  Anger flashes on his face and it contorts his handsome features to something foreign—something I’ve never seen before.

  “What are you trying to say?” he bellows and for a split second I wonder if our neighbors can hear him, almost hoping they can, because he’s kind of scaring me.

  Will they call the cops?

  Maybe turn us in for disturbing the peace?

  “Calm down, Brant,” I say, my voice controlled and even, hoping he’ll follow suit. When I reach out to tug on his sleeve, a familiar gesture I’m hoping will help defuse the situation, he slaps my hand away, catching me off guard.

  “I’m not calming the fuck down, Avery!” He turns and paces, then stops, taking a deep breath and running a hand down his face, but it does nothing to wipe away the pure rage. “What the fuck are you saying? Am I not good enough for you? What the fuck can you possibly want?” His rapid-fire questions are coming so fast I don’t have time to refute or reply. “I bought you a fucking car. I pay for this fucking apartment. I let you have your piddly ass little job. This,” he pauses, spreading his arms wide, “this is what you’ve always fucking dreamed of.”

  “It’s not,” I tell him when he stops again to take a breath. “I mean,” I pause, trying to think of the right words to say and the right way to say them. “I wanted to get out of Honey Springs and be with you, but not like this. Since we’ve been here, you’ve changed. This,” I tell him waving a hand in his direction, “is not the Brant I fell in love with and I can’t—”

  Before I get out the rest of my statement, his first blow hits the side of my cheek.

  Pain radiates, making me flinch.

  I stumble, my eyes going wide in complete dismay.

  Tears begin to fall.

  I gape at him, trying to make words form, trying to reconcile the last seconds of my life.

  Not my Brant. This is not the Brant I love. The Brant I love would never ever lay a hand on me.

  With my hand over my cheek, taking shallow, choppy breaths, I force myself to make eye contact with him, hoping he’ll realize what he’s done and make all of this go away. Instead of the instant regret and remorse I expect to see, he yells again. “Stop your fucking crying!”

  Whack.

  Another one.

  Right across the side of my head, knocking me off my feet.

  It must’ve been hard enough that I fell and hit my head. Running a hand up into my hairline, I feel the knot, but thankfully, no blood. The resulting headache is there, though, adding to the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  He didn’t even carry me to bed.

  When did he become so callous? How did that happen? How did I let it?

  With fresh tears falling, I work quickly as I go into the spare bedroom and grab my backpack from the closet. There’s only one thing on my mind: getting out of here as quickly as possible, preferably without another altercation with Brant.

  I can’t be here, in the same space with him, a second longer than necessary.

  Going to the bedroom, I quietly open the closet door and grab my stash of money, money I thought would go toward a vacation or a great pair of shoes. Never in a million years did I think it would be to escape what has become my life.

  My mama taught me to never be caught without money stored away. “You never know when you’ll need a rainy day fund.” She didn’t warn me about a storm and she’ll be devastated when she finds out what happened. My mama loves Brant like her own son. She trusted him to take care of her baby girl.

  This will break her heart, just as much as it does mine.

  As I leave the room, I allow myself one look back. The mere sight of his sleeping form sends chills up my back, and for once, I’m thankful for the copious amount of alcohol and how late it was when he came home. I doubt he’ll be awake for some time, and by then, I’ll be long gone.

  A few hours later, when the sun starts to peak over the horizon, I set my McDonald’s coffee cup down in the center console of my car and punch the button on the screen in front of me.

  “Good morning, baby.” My mama’s sweet voice soothes my soul. She sounds chipper for it being so early, but that’s no surprise. She and my daddy are up before the roosters, and I mean that in the most literal sense.

  “Good morning, Mama.” I try not to get choked up on my words, but it’s hard. Now that she’s on the phone, I feel the adrenaline that’s been fueling my body for the last three hours start to dissipate and the heartache finally take over.

  “What’s wrong?” I hear a screen door shut behind her, the familiar sound bringing with it a vivid picture of the scene, making me wish I was right there, waiting for her at the kitchen table.

  Nothing, Mama.
That’s what I want to say, but it’s a lie, and I don’t lie to her.

  “Well...” I pause, searching for the right way to say what I need to say. “I’m leaving Houston. Brant and I had a fight and I need some time away.”

  There’s a shuffling sound on the phone as she goes about her business, always multitasking. But when she’s finally settled, probably with a cup of coffee, she asks, “Did you say you had a fight?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I chuckle harshly at the loose use of the word.

  “So, you’re coming home?” There’s hope in her voice. A little sadness, and definitely questions, but a lot of hope.

  “No, Mama. I can’t,” I sigh. “It’s the first place Brant will check, and I really need some space right now. I don’t want to see him until I’ve had time to think.”

  “That bad, huh?” she asks, her tone morphing into concern.

  I can’t speak for a minute while I swallow down the lump in my throat and force the tears to stay put. “Pretty bad,” I tell her.

  “Are you all right? You need your daddy to come get you?”

  “I’m fine, Mama.” I’ll be fine. “I just need some time away...I need to clear my head and figure out what I wanna do...what makes me happy, you know?” That’s what I’ve been thinking about for the past few hours, since hitting the road. I’ve spent the last two years living in Brant’s world, trying to make him happy...waiting on him to make me happy. Screw that. I’ll make my own self happy.

  “I really wish you’d just come home,” my mama says, exhaling deeply into the phone. “We all miss you. And what’s so bad that a little TLC from your mama can’t fix it?”

  Catching a glimpse of myself in my rearview mirror, I flinch, still not used to seeing my splotchy, bruised reflection. I have no doubt it will get worse before it gets better and it would kill her to see me like this. And don’t even get me started on my daddy...or my nana and grandpa. I can’t do this to them. I can’t bring this—my problems—to Honey Springs.