I can’t push the urge aside. I can’t ignore it. Not any longer. I need the burn—so raw, demanding, and overpowering—to go away. I need my heart to stop aching, and for once, I want the grief and shame to ease, just a little, so I can breathe again.
Finally, I let out a shaky breath. I run the pad of my thumb over the slick surface of the piece of glass. It’s thin, sharp, and might break in my hand if I clutch it any harder.
A fiendish need claws inside me, and a delirious giddiness overcomes me at the thought of even a second’s relief.
I lick my lips. This is what I need . . . one fell swoop of the glass across my skin. The burn. The sting of air and torn flesh, just enough to draw blood. Then I’d feel something else.
I press a jagged edge of the glass to my palm.
“Samantha, I was calling you,” Alison says from the doorway.
Trying not to scream out, I let the glass fall from between my fingers and I look at her. I force myself to smile. “Sorry. What did you need?”
She eyes me askance. “Are you alright? You look . . . tired or something.”
I suppress a laugh. “I’m fine. Did you need something?”
Alison waves my question away. “Never mind,” she says. In a huff, she leaves the kitchen and me, staring down at the shards of glass in the sink.
* * *
Three Years Ago
I’m standing in Mike’s monochromatic kitchen, a room double the size of my bedroom at home. Opening the oven, I remove a pepperoni pizza with olives and jalapeños. It smells beyond amazing, a fortifying snack after a night of lovemaking and giggles.
“Thank you for my bracelet,” I say, admiring the delicate, glinting diamonds set in white gold. I never thought I’d have something so beautiful and expensive, but that’s how Mike makes me feel—beautiful, coveted, and special to him.
Mike’s arms wrap around me from behind as I set the pizza on the stovetop. “God you’re so fucking sexy when you’re wearing my clothes.”
I glance down at his blue button-up shirt, gaping open and covering, well, very little of me. “I’m pretty sure this doesn’t count as clothes.” Though the wind is roaring outside and there’s a sudden downpour, the fire in the connected living room and heat from the oven keep us warm and cozy inside, even in my lack of wardrobe.
I giggle as Mike nibbles on my earlobe and quiver when chills rake over my body, arousing every nerve ending still recovering from our romp on the couch less than an hour ago. Mike’s tongue snakes out to sample the sensitive skin beneath my jaw, leaving a pool of warmth between my thighs in its wake.
“I prefer you naked, though,” he says, and one hand slides up my stomach to my breasts, the other hand trailing down beneath the waist of my underwear. “God, I want you,” he breathes into my ear. “Now.” It’s practically a growl that elicits an ache somewhere deep and hidden that spreads throughout my body. I want him to lick it away.
“Why can’t it always be like this?” I rasp, my eyelids half closed with lust as I lean my head back against him. He’s usually so tired when he returns from his trips on the east coast, but I welcome his insatiable desire for me tonight—his constant advances that make me feel like the most desirable woman in the entire world. He’s never seemed so needy for me, so starved. And I crave it.
Mike chuckles in my ear, completely entertained as I wiggle within his hold. I can feel his erection pressing into me, making every fiber of my being hum with pent-up need. I groan in pleasure when his fingers slip inside me. But then he stops.
Taking a step back, Mike spins me around to face him. He lifts me up, his gaze pinning me in place with the promise of insatiable things to come as he carries me out of the kitchen. I wrap my legs around him, showering him in kisses and moving my hips in his hold, relishing each groan and curse as he carries me back over to the couch. “I’m going to fuck your brains out, angel.”
A thrill of pleasure sends peals of laughter from my throat, and I shrug his shirt off, exposing my breasts completely as he drops me down onto the suede cushions. “Yes, please,” I breathe, and I arch into him as he lowers himself down to me. My head lolls back as he sucks one of my nipples into his mouth, licking and teasing until I can’t help but beg for more.
We both jump at the sound of pounding at the front door.
“Fuuuck,” Mike drawls and rises to his knees. We’re both breathing hard, adrenaline making it difficult to concentrate. “Don’t move,” he says, and he hauls himself off the couch. His hair is tousled from my fingers clutching onto it.
I can’t help it; I giggle again. He pauses, staring down at me. How I snagged this sexy, clever entrepreneur as mine, I’ll never fully understand. He scans my naked body, licking his lips and cursing as he forces himself to head into the foyer. Someone pounds anxiously again.
For a brief moment, I panic, wondering if Papa somehow found out I was here instead of at Mac’s. She’s at a family reunion in Montana, and if Papa called her house and grew worried when no one answered, he might’ve been on a warpath to find me. Does he know where Mike lives?
With the thrill and promise of another orgasm wearing off, I shrug Mike’s shirt back on and button it up—all the way to the top—before I pull my cell phone out of my purse and check to see if I have any missed calls from home. Other than a few drunk text messages from Nick, I don’t see anything alarming. I drop my phone back into my purse, suddenly angry that we were so rudely interrupted.
Running my fingers through my blonde tangles, I pad out of the living room and stick my head out into the foyer. The front door is open a crack. Mike’s outline glows outside, under the porch light. Creeping forward, I wonder who he’s talking to at this time of night.
Then I register an angry, familiar voice.
Three
Reilly
Pulling out of Thornton’s Public Storage, I stop at the edge of the driveway, the water bottle on the seat beside me rolling onto the floor, bouncing off my single bag of possessions—five sets of clean clothes, a pair of running shoes, socks, the basic hygiene products, my Army ball cap, and the old man’s letter. It’s finally starting to sink in that, ready or not, I’m going home.
“You’re worthless anyway, I don’t care what you do.” That’s what my old man had said to me the day I told him I was joining the Army. Granted, he was partially drunk and clearly bitter, as always. But for some reason, even though I expected that reaction, it still affected me. Those aren’t comforting words for a young man to hear, one who’s leaving everything he knows behind for a new, uncertain life. Then again, new and uncertain—a life faraway—was what I’d wanted, at first.
Until four months ago, the thought of returning hadn’t really crossed my mind. I never expected there to be a reason to come back. But having only received one other letter from Sam since my deployment, its contents earth-shattering, I knew the instant my old man’s shakily addressed envelope was in my hand that its message wouldn’t be a good one.
I knew I could handle whatever the old man had to say in a letter. But I hadn’t expected it to tell me to come home. Sam had always been my Achilles heel. She shook all certainty I had—certainty to leave my old man and drop the exhausting charade my life had become four years ago. Even now, when I know coming home is what I should do, she once again makes me question whether or not I can.
“Haven’t you left yet?” Those four words had sealed my fate, and what could have been all those years ago wasn’t enough to sway me anymore. With a promise that Sam would wait for me, that she would be mine whether I left or stayed, I chose to leave. “Good riddance,” were my old man’s last words to me, a final reminder of why I was making the right decision. It all seemed so perfect at the time.
Glancing in the rearview mirror to find no one impatiently idling behind me, I let my hands fall from the steering wheel of my truck, listening to the familiar rumble of the small-block motor, and I give myself a minute to contemplate what exactly I’m getting myself into.
&
nbsp; I stare out at the golden hills that stretch out as far as the eye can see. The heat of the summer is heavy and thick against my skin. I eye the water bottle on the floor, air bubbles vibrating with the rumble of the engine. I reach down for the bottle, but I pause the second I spot a crumpled piece of paper sticking out from beneath the bench seat.
There are a handful of reasons I know I should leave the paper there—it’s in the past, there’s nothing for me in the past, the past is a toxic mess of unwanted memories—but I’m compelled to open it, to remind myself of the potential misery that awaits me if I go back.
Smoothing out the paper, I stare at Sam’s bubbly handwriting, losing myself to an all but forgotten memory.
“Papa says every car has to have a name,” Sam chirps. Her brown eyes shimmer like maple sugar in the sunlight as she smiles up at me. Her full, pink lips part as she waits for me to respond.
I smile at her because she’s the one good thing I have in my life. I question for the hundredth time why I’d ever consider leaving her for the next four years.
“You’ve never heard of that before?” she asks, and even though I have, I shake my head. I think it’s because I want to indulge her. I want to remember her like this, sweet and innocent and blinking up at me.
She laughs and opens my glovebox. “Well . . .” She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth as she rifles through it, finally finding a folded paper receipt and a pen to write with. After flattening the paper out on her lap, she scribes in large, black letters, I DEEM THIS MONSTER BE NAMED THE RUMBLER.
Crumpling the paper again, I toss it aside and reach for the water bottle. I unscrew the cap, suddenly dry-mouthed and in need of a distraction, so I guzzle it down until it’s gone. Despite the efforts of my brothers-in-arms to get me wasted and loosen me up a bit, I haven’t been much of a drinker over the past four years in fear of what I could become. But I know I’m going to need more than water if I’m going to get through this trip with my sanity intact.
I right myself in the driver’s seat, letting my hands settle on the steering wheel again, tightening this time as I look to my left. One conversation—one single signature—is all it would take, and I’d be back on the list again, waiting to be shipped out, braced for a life that would be easier, compared to other things.
I look down the road, to the right. Five and a half miles that way is Saratoga Falls—the place where I smoked my first cigarette up in the oak tree behind the middle school gym with Nick, where I bought my Chevy for my senior project and rebuilt it at Nick’s house with his dad. Saratoga Falls is the town where I won baseball championships and where I woke up on some random person’s lawn with my first screaming hangover and my hand in a pile of dog shit.
I glance into the rearview mirror to find myself grinning. Then it falters. For the first time in a while, I actually see the two scars on my face—one a sharp, inch-long line on my jaw, remnants of a bar fight on base where a broken beer bottle collided with my face all in the name of helping a brother out, and the other a small, faded white gash above my eyebrow that the old man’s fist had left behind on one of his “bad” days—both scars a different part of me. I shake my head.
No, Saratoga Falls was never all laughs and adventures, not when your father was the town drunk, a worthless bastard who’d done little for me, his one and only kid, other than give me a roof over my head and money for clothes once in a while. So why I’m going back for him, I’m not quite sure.
Deciding to come home had been a vicious cycle of shoulds and don’t want tos, but despite my desire to take the easy road and deploy back to Turkey or Japan or some arid, desolate place in the Middle East, I knew I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t go home one last time. Guilt and Dad’s letter have gotten me this far, and I’ve never been one to change my mind mid-motion.
So I gas the accelerator and go right. The feel of the Rumbler beneath me, the virile and sheer horsepower that rallies its roar to life, is one of the few things I’ve missed. It’s slightly comforting. Not only does it sound like the growl of a Carrier or Cougar that I’ve been confined in for most of the last four years, but it reminds me of Cal Carmichael and the first time I drove the yet-to-be-named Rumbler out of his shop—a hunk of metal that had been towed in and abandoned. After months of frustration and excitement, blood, sweat, and maybe a few proud tears, it was perfect—red, roaring, and the first thing I ever owned that was all mine.
Leaving the windows down, I let the hot, dry air blast my skin as I accelerate onto the highway. When the Saratoga Falls sign comes into view, I think about the house. The old man’s note was clear. I’m to sell it and keep the money, but if the house is in the condition I’d left it in, that wouldn’t be an easy task, twelve acres of land or not. I would do it, though. I’d come this far, already put my reenlistment plans on hold as it is.
Guilt has a funny way of making people do things out of obligation, it seems. I hadn’t checked on my dad except for when I was home on leave for one short week, and the guilt that I hadn’t even known he was ailing so much was enough to sway me here to follow through with his final wishes.
I scrub the side of my face and rest my elbow on the window frame. I feel like a heartless son of a bitch for having an emptiness inside my chest when I’m sure I should be feeling more sadness. I tell myself that I’m carrying out his one request, which is more than he deserves.
My phone vibrates on the seat beside me. I reach for it. One missed call from Nick. Playing the message, I hold the phone to my ear and struggle to hear his voice above the Chevy and the wind.
“Hey, dude, it’s me. Where you at? I haven’t taken the truck out at all this month, hopefully she’s still running when you finally get here. Anyway, I actually have a day off today. I’m meeting Sam and Mac for lunch, then headed to Lick’s to grab a brew and meet up with someone. Call me.”
I disconnect from voicemail and stare down the road, at the hills that begin to give way to trees and tall buildings.
Sam. The single person I’ve never wanted to be closer to and farther away from in all my life. Nerves I haven’t felt since my first day in boot camp stir in my stomach. No matter how much I’ve been able to put the past behind me, I know face-to-face will be a different story, one I’m not anxious to play out anytime soon.
Bracing myself as much as I can for the weeks to come, I take the Saratoga Falls exit. I lean forward and turn on the radio. Music helps distract me, usually. The electric guitar and gravelly vocals make me feel a little better.
It’s time to say goodbye and close this chapter of my life . . . for good.
Four
Sam
Relieved to be away from the ranch for a while and blaring the sappy lyrics of a banjo-strumming, twangy-singing country duo, I head down the mountain for an overdue Friday afternoon lunch date with Mac and Nick. While I like keeping busy, the past few days have felt like a mind-numbing loop of saddling one horse only to unsaddle it and ride the next, and I’m exhausted and starting to feel a little sick about it.
Nick and I have gotten a lot of other tasks accomplished, too, like mending the chicken coop, mucking out all the stalls, fixing the waterline to the troughs, and everything else that popped up in between, and today is a much-needed day off. So, promising Alison I’d run a slew of errands for her while I’m out, I head into the heart of town.
Turning the truck into Fairview Plaza, I park in an open spot in front of the Beach Club Tanning Salon, a few storefronts down from the Market, the best sandwich joint in Saratoga Falls. With Mac busy working in her dad’s auto shop and Nick always working with me or at Lick’s, the three of us don’t get together as much as we used to, and today of all days, I need a little distraction. A picnic in the park across from the auto shop is just the remedy.
Killing the engine, I climb out of the truck. Though it isn’t lifted per se, it’s tall for me and my not-so-long legs. With a slam of the door, I shove my cell phone and keys into my jeans pocket, fluff my oversized ta
nk top that is wrinkled from driving, and head toward the deli. The sound of my flip-flops resounds off the storefront windows as I walk by, something I’m not used to given the normal clomp of my boots.
“—just do it, Jesse. No arguing.” A disgruntled female voice reaches my ears, and my heart skips a beat. Instinctively, I tense, walking by Bethany, my least favorite member of our graduating class. Her dress is too short, her skin glowing orange in the early afternoon sun.
Bethany barely spares me a glance at first, her phone conversation is too concerning, but when her gaze does find mine, it thins. She quickly assesses me from head to toe as she continues toward the salon. “I said no,” she says, practically growling into the phone at poor Jesse Someone on the other end.
I finger the soft fringe at the end of my braid, trying but failing miserably not to think about her with Mike, of their frequent rendezvous. I don’t want to think about how many times she’d been with him while we were together. I quickly glance in her direction one last time and wonder what the hell Nick sees in her, how she could possibly captivate him the way she does.
I shake away the gnawing disgust Bethany’s presence always sparks and continue into the deli. After I order three sandwiches, each crafted exactly as we like them and sparing no expense, I grab a couple bags of chips, a fruit bowl, and a special treat for Nick and pay Schmitty before I head back to the truck.
Traffic’s crap as I drive through town, something I should’ve expected around lunchtime on a Friday. Our town is small, making downtown the place to be for anyone doing anything on a nice afternoon like today. Me, I’m just trying to get through the throng of people crossing the street, the cars blocking traffic, waiting for parking spots outside the old brick restaurants and businesses that line the manicured and landscaped streets. I recognize a few people I know scattered about and wave to them when they spot me, trying not to let my impatience show.
Saratoga Falls: The Complete Love Story Series Page 4
