by Debra Doxer
Sweet Liar
The Candy Series, Book 2
Copyright © 2015 by Debra Doxer
All Rights Reserved
Edited by
Pam Berehulke, Bulletproof Editing
Cover Design by
@Sarah Hansen at Okay Creations
Formatted by
JT Formatting
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Debra Doxer.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Title Page
Note from the Author
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
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Connect with Me
Books by Debra Doxer
The main character in this story, Candy Seaborne, suffers from an autoimmune disease called CREST syndrome. Her most severe symptom is Raynaud’s.
Although Raynaud’s can occur alone, it is often more acute when it’s a symptom of an underlying disease, as in Candy’s case. This condition causes her hands to become numb and change colors in cold temperatures, from purple to stark white. Stress can also trigger this change. If the numbness and lack of proper circulation continues for too long, the consequences for Candy’s fingers can be severe, as they were in Book One, Like Candy.
If you would like to read more about this autoimmune disease, you can check out the following sites:
http://www.sclero.org/medical/about-sd/types/systemic/limited/crest/a-to-z.html
http://www.hopkinsscleroderma.org/scleroderma/types-scleroderma/
***
When I turned eighteen, I decided to make my own luck since the fates had so thoroughly abandoned me. I bought myself a bus ticket, walked out of my aunt’s house where I’d been living for the past six years, and walked back into my father’s home. My home. The one I hadn’t lived in since my mother died.
My expectations were realistic. I knew there’d be no embraces or gushing words of welcome when I arrived on the doorstep. My father was a quiet man, stoic and guarded, and I accepted that. I didn’t need those things to reassure me I was cared for, or so I thought until I met Jonah.
He showed me how much I could feel if I would only let myself. When we met, I was still hurting from the betrayal of my ex. I wanted no part of a relationship. But somehow I got one anyway because Jonah wasn’t like other boys. He didn’t employ the usual cheesiness, calling me beautiful and kissing up. That didn’t come until later.
In the beginning, we were like a couple of medieval warriors wearing suits of armor to protect our vulnerable fleshy parts from the swords of our enemies. Except I shed my armor before I knew Jonah was my enemy, and then it was too late because he was keeping a secret.
It was a whopper of a deception, one that changed everything. He wasn’t a high school boy; his name wasn’t even Jonah. He’d been lying, and he did it to get to my father.
What hurt most was that Jonah had made a fool of me. That suspicious voice inside my head telling me not to trust him, the one I ignored because I thought getting burned in the past had made me paranoid? Well, it turned out to be right.
It wasn’t only that internal voice that warned me. My father tried too, but I wouldn’t listen. I trusted the wrong person, and my life unraveled. But in a strange twist, it brought my father and me closer together. We formed a new understanding, and I learned the hard way that he was the only person I could trust. When he decided to flee and asked me to go with him, it took me all of one second to decide, even though running meant I’d never see Jonah again. But I didn’t want to see him again; it would hurt too much.
While my father and I slept that last night, with the intention of leaving the next morning and never returning, someone else had other plans for us. It started with the sound of the house alarm startling me awake. I sprang out of bed only to hear my father in the hallway, shouting at me to stay inside my room.
I was never good at following orders.
Now I stood with my fingers wrapped around cold, deadly metal. In front of me was the huge man who knocked me down as he ran away after breaking into our house weeks before, and he had his hands around my father’s throat. He was choking him, and the only means I had to stop him was gripped tightly in my hands.
When Jonah appeared in the doorway, I hardly registered his presence, out of place as it was. His showing up at my house in the middle of the night made no sense. But it did make terrible sense, and I should have put it together sooner.
My finger was already squeezing the trigger when he called to me over the blaring of the alarm, shouting that the man strangling my father was his father. Jonah’s father. But it was too late, and it wouldn’t have made a difference anyway. I had to stop him no matter who he was.
The gun went off with a bone-jarring recoil, and seconds later Jonah plowed into me, sending us both crashing to the floor. His weight knocked the gun from my hands and the air from my lungs before my head smacked into the hardwood.
I struggled to draw in a breath and the room blurred, darkening at the edges. As I tried to push myself up, a shadow moved in my vision. Jonah rushed to his father, who knelt on the floor, bent over and grasping his side. Beyond him was my own father, coughing raggedly, slumped on the floor.
When I tried to sit up again, the room tilted and dimmed, and that was the last thing I remembered before everything went dark.
***
It started out as a beautiful dream. One I didn’t want to wake up from.
I was sitting in the grass, surrounded by tall green blades that stretched almost to my shoulders. Above me, the sky was clear, not a single cloud marring the endless expanse of blue. As a warm breeze whispered through my hair and tickled my skin, my gaze followed the uneven path of an orange butterfly fluttering over the field. It was a monarch butterfly, just like the one Jonah and I saw at The Butterfly Place.
It moved toward me, crisscrossing the distance, growing larger with ea
ch flutter of its black-tipped wings, but when it was within arm’s length from me, it halted, hovering in place before heading back the way it came.
It went on this way for a while, my anticipation building each time the butterfly came closer and waning with its retreat, almost as if it were teasing me. I was tempted to stand and coax the delicate creature onto my finger, but I didn’t want to scare it off. So I remained where I was, watching it flutter aimlessly, enjoying the beauty of my silent companion.
When the sun dipped lower, the butterfly’s wings flapped faster and it turned, headed toward the woods at the edge of the field. I continued to watch, although I knew I had somewhere to be, but couldn’t remember where and felt no urgency to get there.
The butterfly grew smaller as it moved away from me, and finally I stood to stretch out the tightness in my limbs. My gaze continued to follow the butterfly as it came to the end of the field where it stopped, fluttering in small circles as if indecisive about entering the dark woods.
After a moment, a figure emerged from the shadow of the trees. He was tall, with broad shoulders and dark wavy hair. The butterfly held his attention too. His gaze went right to it, as if he expected it to be there waiting for him. Swatches of orange flashed in the distance as the butterfly flew with determination toward the man from the woods. Soon it landed on his shoulder like it belonged there.
The man looked at the butterfly, smiling and admiring it. Then he looked at me.
It felt like a jolt of electricity had struck me. Soft hazel eyes captured mine. Unable to move, I was held in place by an unexpected pull. His eyes called to me across the field, asking me to come to him just like the butterfly had.
I wanted to go. The pull was strong, but something stopped me. A tiny kernel of fear in my belly made me take a step back instead. When he saw my hesitation, his expression fell and confusion creased his brow.
I had no explanation for my fear, but it strengthened and my palms turned moist. I took another step back and saw his eyes harden at my rejection, narrowing with menace.
Disconcerted, I tore my gaze from his and returned my attention to the butterfly still perched on his shoulder. But I wasn’t entranced by its beauty any longer. Instead, I felt deceived. It was never mine to admire. It was his, and my heart squeezed at the loss of something so fragile and perfect.
Pulling in a deep breath, I did the only thing that made sense. I turned and ran.
The sounds around me gradually captured my attention as my mind came alert while my body held still. Without opening my eyes, I registered that I was lying on a bed that felt like my own, and my head and hip hurt like hell. My heart pulsed erratically as I listened to the voices around me.
A stranger’s voice said, “We should take her with us.”
“She doesn’t like hospitals. She’d rather stay here.”
I tried not to react when I recognized Jonah’s voice. He was still here.
My chest ached with each shallow breath I took, but my mind was clear, and I was fully aware of what had happened before I ended up in this bed as I listened to their conversation. What struck me most was that Jonah’s voice sounded normal, not filled with the tension or panic I’d expect if his father were hurt or even worse.
But I’d shot his father. I knew I did.
When the voices moved out of the room and continued down the hall, I opened my eyes to find I was in my bedroom and it was still dark out. I heard the front door open and close as people left.
As I levered myself onto my elbows, Jonah came back into the room again and stopped abruptly.
“You’re awake.” He stared at me, his face a mask of exhaustion and uncertainty. “How are you feeling?”
Staring back, I wondered why he was talking to me like the world hadn’t been flipped upside down.
When I didn’t answer, he filled the silence. “The paramedics just left. They said you fainted. You took a hard fall too, so you may want to take it easy for a while.” He walked toward the bed and looked down at me.
I scoffed because I didn’t fall; Jonah had barreled into me. And I wasn’t a fainter—I’d never fainted in my life. Although I’d never shot anyone before either. If I really had fainted, that didn’t bode well for my future career as an assassin.
My head pounded and everything I wanted to say tumbled around inside my brain, so tangled up that I was still trying to form a coherent sentence when Jonah frowned at me and said, “You only grazed his side. My father is going to be okay.”
My heart skipped erratically at this news, but I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or disappointed.
Jonah watched me closely, looking for a reaction, and I wondered what he expected to see. I schooled my expression, trying hard not to let him see anything as the implications of this news sent my blood racing. If his father wasn’t dead, what happened to my father?
Panic that had been forming for weeks licked at my heels. I’d known something was coming—something terrible. I’d known it since my father had the security system installed in our house. We’d been speeding toward this outcome ever since, but I had no idea Jonah would be a part of it, or that the person I’d built into the bogeyman from a nightmare would turn out to be his father.
Red-hot betrayal burned inside me as I looked into Jonah’s inexplicably calm face, and I hated the fact that I was lower than him, lying in bed, subjugated by my position. But I doubted I could make much of a stand with the way I was feeling at the moment.
“What about my father?” My voice sounded scratchy and foreign to my ears.
“He’s fine,” Jonah said quietly.
“Where is he?”
Jonah hesitated. “He isn’t here.”
I figured my father wasn’t here anymore. I wasn’t an idiot. Did Jonah think I was? The truth was, I didn’t know what he thought.
His face was smooth, drained of emotion and consequently cold in its lack of feeling. His features were familiar, the square jaw, the straight nose, and hazel eyes with a jagged pink scar rimming the right one, dragging it down. But the person behind that face was a stranger to me, one I was meeting for the first time.
As I pushed myself up to a sitting position, my brain seemed to shift inside my head. Wincing, I lifted my hand to feel the small bump on the back of my skull.
Concern flickered in Jonah’s eyes. He leaned toward me and reached out, but his hand stopped midway and returned to his side.
I scowled at his indecision. “If my father isn’t here, where is he then?”
He sighed as he ran a hand through his hair. The gesture was so familiar, it made my heart ache with the memory.
“He’s at a facility, Candy.”
The ache disappeared and my eyes narrowed. “A facility? What kind of facility?”
“The kind that doesn’t let you leave.”
He meant my father was in jail or whatever their equivalent was. “What is it you people think he did?”
Again, Jonah looked wary, as if standing here and telling me the truth was the last thing he wanted to do. He took a step closer to the bed. “There are so many things wrong with what you just asked.”
Confused, I said nothing and waited.
“I’m not you people. I’m still me.” His eyes met mine. “And we don’t think your father did something. We know he did it. We just don’t know why.”
“You work for them too?” I asked, even though I knew the answer. “The people my father works for.”
He nodded.
“Your father does too?”
Again, he nodded.
“I’ve met your father before, you know. Well, that may be an exaggeration. He ran over me on his way out of our house after breaking into it.”
“I know.” Jonah shifted his gaze away, looking uncomfortable for the first time.
“Of course you do.” I laughed miserably as I twisted my fingers in the blanket.
“Where were you going?” He eyed my suitcase in the corner.
“I don’t know.”
I’d answered honestly, but Jonah’s suspicious look made me feel empty suddenly, because everything between us was gone. Trust, affection, friendship. All gone, but really never there in the first place. He couldn’t have hurt me more if he’d stabbed me right in the heart.
“You should rest,” he said after a moment. “We can talk later.” He still wasn’t looking at me as he moved toward my bedroom door.
“Wait.” I sat up again, brimming with questions now that he was leaving, and desperate not to be left alone with my rioting thoughts. “Why did your father come over here tonight?”
Jonah paused in the doorway. Leaning against the frame, he shoved his hands into his pockets. “He came to stop you from running.”
How did he know?
At my questioning look, he continued. “Your father came to our house this afternoon. He was angry that I showed up at school today and upset you.”
I thought of the blood on my father’s face when he got home tonight. Jonah or his father had done that?
“He demanded that we stay away from you, that you had nothing to do with anything. We already knew that, but my father told him that he could end it now by turning over the information we want. Your dad agreed, but said he needed a day to gather it. He lied. He was planning to run instead. It wasn’t exactly a surprise.”
I stared hard at Jonah, looking for some evidence of who he really was, wondering how I could have missed so much. While I was worrying about my father and trying to figure out what kind of trouble he was in, Jonah knew everything, and he knew it each time he saw me.
An angry fire flared in my chest. “What do you want from him?” I asked, surprised at how much harder and stronger my voice had grown.
Jonah’s expression seemed conflicted. “It’s not up to me to tell you.”
“But you know.”
After a brief hesitation, he nodded.
“And you’re not going to tell me.” I glared at him, so tired of him and his secrets.
