by Amy Rose
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
~Dedication ~
~ Prologue ~
~ Chapter One ~
~ Chapter Two ~
~ Chapter Three ~
~ Chapter Four ~
~ Chapter Five ~
~ Chapter Six ~
~ Chapter Seven ~
~ Chapter Eight ~
~ Chapter Nine ~
~ Chapter Ten ~
~ Chapter Eleven ~
~ Chapter Twelve ~
~ Chapter Thirteen ~
~ Chapter Fourteen ~
~ Chapter Fifteen ~
~ Chapter Sixteen ~
~ Chapter Seventeen ~
~ Chapter Eighteen ~
~ Chapter Nineteen ~
~ Chapter Twenty ~
~ Chapter Twenty-One ~
~ Chapter Twenty-Two ~
~ Chapter Twenty-Three ~
~ Chapter Twenty- Four ~
~ Chapter Twenty-Five ~
~ Chapter Twenty-Six ~
~ Chapter Twenty-Seven ~
~ Chapter Twenty–Eight ~
~ Chapter Twenty-Nine ~
~ Chapter Thirty ~
~ Acknowledgements ~
~ About the Author ~
~ Connect with Amy Rose ~
Safer Alone
Amy Rose
Safer Alone
Copyright © 2019 Amy Rose
All rights reserved.
No parts of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or publisher.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This 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. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Formatting by Rik – Wild Seas formatting
Editor Anne Hamilton
Cover Designer by Liz Ponting at LP Designs & Art
~Dedication ~
To my dearest Shane. Thank you for all of your support and keeping our boys entertained through the years.
And to my beautiful sons Mason and Oliver. Without all of the snuggles, hearing your laughter and well-timed naps you took for me, I wouldn’t have been able to get all of these amazing thoughts on paper.
You boys are my inspiration and I love you fiercely, forever.
~ Prologue ~
My life was boring, even what some people would describe as monotonous. My days consisted of following a strict routine, waking up, eating breakfast, getting ready for the day, going to work, coming home, cooking something easy for dinner that normally worked well as leftovers, going to bed, and then getting up and doing it all again the very next day.
With one exception: that exception was the wonderful day known as Sunday. That was my day.
The only reason it was different is because I didn’t work on Sundays. Instead I stayed home and either stuck my nose into a good book, made myself comfortable on the couch, or watched one of my many DVDs. Or when I felt like I needed a change, I would leave the house, and throw in the occasional antiques fair or auction.
My career as a real estate agent kept me busy enough, filled in my days and, most importantly, paid the bills. I didn’t go out and socialize, apart from when I would catch up with my best friend Liam and his fiancée, Jessica, and that normally consisted of a meal and movie at their place. Or I would have a coffee after the work day with James, a sales agent who works at the same firm as me.
I didn’t have a lot of friends, nor did I want or need them, and I most certainly wasn’t looking for anyone to complicate my life. No, siree, I was happy on my own; I could count on me, myself and I. I also didn’t mind my life being this way. It was mundane, boring if you will, but it was my life to live.
Boring was safe, and that was something incredibly important, something I didn’t take for granted, considering my past.
A few years ago, I escaped a volatile and physically abusive relationship and, along with it, the life that I had known since childhood in New York City. I then fled to a new state and a new town, which soon became my home town: Nashville, the most densely populated city in Tennessee. Nashville was now where I called home.
I was now approximately 800 miles away from my past in New York. But even though I was that far, it proved that even with the passing of time and the distance I had created, I couldn’t forget what happened back then, no matter how hard I tried.
I had no real reason to return to New York City. That part of my life was done and dusted, and the things that still tie me to that city don’t need overseeing. I was happy here with the new life I had created for myself. I was comfortable being alone; I knew what to expect out of every day and, most importantly, I was safe.
That all changed the day that Elliot Sands walked into that house and into my life.
~ Chapter One ~
I’m staring straight ahead, face to face with a tall, dirty, red brick wall, and I can smell what can only be described as sewage. I look around, to see no one else is with me. I am, in fact, alone, by myself in this large abandoned house. Judging from the disgusting smell wafting around me, it’s been vacant for quite some time. So the question is, why on earth would I willingly be here? I wander the house, making my way slowly from room to room, checking to see if, by chance, anyone else is around. But no, each room is dark, cold, and empty. The fear building up inside of my chest begins to ripple through my body and I can’t help but rub my arms to try and alleviate the goosebumps that are appearing on the flesh of my arms.
I swallow hard, trying to gain control of my feelings. It begins to work; my heart rate begins to slow, each deep breath bringing me closer to a sense of calm. That is, until I hear a sound, similar to that of a rock being kicked across a concrete floor. Due to the overwhelming lack of noise around me, it sounds as though it has come from right behind me. I jump, turning to see what made the noise, seeing nothing on the floor. I run, running out into the hall, in search of where the sound had come from and, more importantly, who had made the sound.
Turning the corner, into a large open room, I see that there is one person standing across from me on the other side of this room, facing away from me and staring out the large window. My heart is hammering in anticipation. Who is that? Why am I here? Why are they here? Maybe they can tell me where I am? Most importantly, maybe they can help me get out of here?
As the silhouette turns around to face me, the glow from the streetlamp outside the window, meets with its face for a moment, highlighting those features that I, unfortunately, know all too well. I know who it is.
I feel suddenly as though I am one of those unlucky passengers on the Titanic, trapped aboard as the ship plunges into the ocean. A sinking feeling forms in the pit of my stomach as recognition washes over me. There he is. A horrible man from my past. One I never want to see again.
In an effort to escape, I turn around to see that the door that I had just entered through has vanished, replaced instead with another solid, red brick wall. I press the palms of my hands against it and push, hard, hoping it is a trick of the eye. Pushing proves unsuccessful. This is, most definitely, a real, solid brick wall, not just a figment of my imagination.
I look back over my shoulder and see that he is walking
toward me now, approaching me one step at a time, slow and catlike, stalking his prey as a lion would a gazelle. He holds an old, worn, baseball bat in hand, twirling it in one hand before passing it to the other. Once he stops a few steps from where I stand, he points his weapon of choice directly at me.
I turn my whole body around to face him, plastering the strongest, most fierce look that I can summon across my features. I hold my hands with palms facing outward in a defensive position, wanting to protect my body, and hold him at arm’s length for as long as possible.
“I told you that I would find you one day…” “you’re so pathetic…” “you’re never going to amount to anything…” “you’re useless…” “don’t worry, I’ll make it quick…”
Where I stand, I’m completely frozen to the spot. Even if my legs wanted to work, what would be the point in running? Especially when he would just catch me again. He takes a measured step forward, meaning there is now only an arm’s length between us. He swings the bat backwards, so far that I can see the tip of the bat showing over his other shoulder. He then brings it forward with so much force that when he finally connects with my legs, I feel them being taken out from underneath me.
I scream his name and fall to the floor with a thump. The pain is excruciating, so familiar, the feeling of my bones breaking. I’m sure if I had the energy to sit up and look, I would see splintered bone poking through torn flesh. He stands over me, the bat raised vertically in the air above my face, raising it high. I see his cruel smirk spread across those features. “Goodbye, Angela.” He brings the bat down quickly, landing just above the bridge of my nose, I feel a warm liquid spreading across my face as it reaches my lips. I flick my tongue out and I can taste the metallic tang of blood. It all goes dark. I’m dead, I know I am. Then why on earth am I hearing beeping?
Beep, beep, beep. I’m not dead. In fact, I’m quite certainly alive. I’ve never been so relieved to hear that annoying sound, that sound which is coming from my alarm clock. Luckily for me, I have it located on my bedside table. I reach up with my hand whacking at thin air until I finally connect with the hard plastic and turn that god-awful racket off.
I lay in bed for as long as I possibly can, rubbing my eyes and trying to wake myself up, enjoying the warmth and comfort that my blankets provide me, before having to commence my morning ritual. I have two viewings today, and those homes aren’t going to show themselves.
Jumping out of bed, I head to the kitchen to make myself a bowl of oatmeal, drizzling it with a generous amount of honey. I take a peek at the weather outside through the sliding glass door that leads to my small balcony. It looks unsure of what to do with itself today. There are clusters of greyish white clouds overhead, but no signs of fallen rain. Fingers crossed that the sun decides to make an appearance. After all, in my experience, there is little worse than horrible weather, especially when you need to be outside in it.
I quickly finish the last mouthful of breakfast and swallow down the last of my cup of tea before hitting the shower. I dress in dark grey pants, an emerald green long-sleeved silk shirt, and black Mary Janes. Once the outfit is complete, I turn my attention to pinning my long, black hair up on top of my head. While completing my make-up regime, I apply extra concealer to the area under my eyes, in an effort to at least try and cover the dark circles that have become almost ever-present as of late. I grab my things on the way out the door and head to my first showing.
Later I’m almost finished with my first open house of the day. I’m currently standing in the kitchen area of my favorite house currently in my listings. This historic beauty is in the suburb of Belle Meade.
Belle Meade is a small historic city located in the county of Davidson. It is mainly known for the Belle Meade Plantation. Once a residence, it is mainly used nowadays as a museum and once in a while the grounds play host to some functions. Belle Meade is also the city with the highest per capita income in the state, mostly due to the low population of just over 3000 people. The homes that do come available in this area are quite expensive, the average one selling for around $1.5 million dollars.
I’ve had only one client walk through today. She was a tall, gorgeous, red-haired woman, with dark brown eyes framed with thick black eyelashes and dark, well-manicured eyebrows. I could tell she was clearly an out-of-towner due to her accent, which seemed to have a New Jersey twang to it. Also, her thin body was dressed in a designer suit with black Jimmy Choo high heels, and a Louis Vuitton handbag was resting on her shoulder—an outfit that you wouldn’t see many Nashville locals dressed in, especially on a Saturday afternoon.
Most people don’t realize it, but I am actually a New Yorker myself. Yes indeed, I was born and raised in Manhattan. I’ve been able to pick up the subtle twang most Nashville locals have, so it didn’t surprise me that it wasn’t picked up today. Not that she seemed interested in anything I had to say, anyway.
It didn’t seem to be an overly promising showing. I heard my attendee chatting away to herself several times throughout the viewing. I just presumed that she was talking to herself. Let me just point out that this isn’t the first time someone has walked through one of my open houses talking out loud to themselves. However, Miss New Jersey here was different. When she finally came back over to me after walking the entire property, she began to rattle off her long list of items that would need to be changed.
The ones that stood out to me were:
1. A walk-in closet would need to be installed
2. The color scheme throughout the house needed rectifying; fair point, since there were a total of six different colors used to paint this house
3. Each wallpaper was different
4. The kitchen wasn’t modern enough. I mean, heaven forbid, the home didn’t come with a dishwasher. Honestly, though, this statement made complete sense to me the moment she asked about it. A lady like this one has probably never washed dishes by hand in her life
I wanted to ask her just what, exactly, she expected from an older home? This home is more than likely the same vintage as her great-great-grandparents, for god’s sake. The Belle Meade Homestead was constructed in 1834, not just a couple of years ago, which, clearly, she preferred. She appeared to be one of those women who liked the finer things in life: designer clothes, fancy cars and new homes with no need of any restoration work.
This home needs someone who can appreciate it. It has character in spades. Yes, it will require some work, both restorative and renovative, but let me put it to you this way. It’s one of a kind and they certainly don’t make them like this anymore.
Instead of saying any of those things, I kept my professional manner and answered all of her questions, advising her that homes that were crafted by hand during this time period didn’t have built-in closets, let alone walk-in closets; that, if you were so inclined, you could easily sand the timber cabinets back in both the kitchen and the bathroom, then choose to lacquer them in a new timber stain. Or, if you wanted to modernize, you could even paint them in a different color, therefore changing the look of the cabinets completely.
That is, if you wanted to save money by not paying to have completely new cabinets installed, which could also be done quite easily. Another option could be to consider changing the countertop to another material. I suggested the possibility of butcher’s block or even a stone component, like quartz, granite, or marble. Those options vary in price, and by choosing to use what is already there, just refinishing with the purchase of a couple of key items like a new countertop, new hardware, new appliances, the kitchen will look completely different, with the added bonus of not being as expensive as a complete renovation.
She thanked me for my suggestions and seemed to agree, even if it was half-hearted at best. Then she wandered away, the clicking of her high heels on the timber floors echoing through the house. I noted that as she was walking away, her fingers were madly tapping away on the iPad she had in hand, occasionally lifting it to take a photograph. No doubt one of the many items o
n her list.
It wasn’t too hard to tell that she wasn’t sold on the house; I mean anyone could tell that she was picking it to pieces, I have seen this tactic used before, finding all of the items that need money spent on them in order to drive down the price of the home. Or else she enjoyed making a real estate agent’s life hell.
To be completely honest, I was too tired to be pushing the sale of this house as hard as I normally would, having tossed and turned most of the night. And then, after that nightmare, I just felt drained. When would they stop? The nightmares were always similar in nature, and they tended to occur every couple of nights lately. This one ended the same as the others; but it had happened in a new location.
Thinking about Dylan nowadays made my skin crawl all over. It’s amazing how different it is for me now, especially when I know that there was a time that it used to have the opposite effect on me; it used to make me smile. I could feel my body give an involuntary shudder confirming that those feelings were well and truly gone and they weren’t coming back. I promised myself that I would never allow them to appear again when thinking about him, not even the good times we shared.
It’s not the first time that I have awakened feeling this way after one of these dreams; then again, it wasn’t as though it was just a nightmare either. It’s more of a memory, a memory of the last time I was with my ex-boyfriend. His name is Dylan Roberts, and yes, you heard correctly, he was my boyfriend for a couple of years and my fiancé for three months; someone who I loved with all of my heart who decided that it was okay to get physically abusive with me.
These dreams come back to remind me of the life I had once endured, back when I was living in New York City—my life before I ran away and relocated to start over, to try and give myself a fresh start. And in search of that new life, I ended up right here in the country music capital of America, Nashville, Tennessee.
“I have another question for you. I was wondering about the gardens. Will they be attended to before a new owner takes possession of the property?”
