by Lisa Sommers
WISHBONE
BOOK ONE
IN THE GAME ON TRILOGY
WISHBONE
By Lisa Sommers
Warning: This work contains sexual content and is written for adults only (18+). All characters depicted in this story are over 18 years of age.
Cover Design by Kelly Emery
Photography by Shauna Kruse
Cover Model Matthew Hosea
Edited by Jennifer Clark Sell
Interior Design and Formatting by Lisa Sommers
Copyright © 2016 by Lisa Sommers
Published by Lisa Sommers
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book 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 and are completely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission.
ISBN- 13: 978-1514101094
ISBN- 10: 1514101092
Discover other titles by Lisa Sommers:
Red Roses
The Fall # 1
The Hidden Truth # 2
Her Salvation # 3
Twelve: Emily’s Story # 4
Charlie : Charlie
Lisa Sommers’ books can be found on Amazon at www.amazon.com/author/lsommers
Dedication
To my loving family who always puts up with me and my crazy hours of writing.
Table of Contents
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
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Chapter 1
Alli
While watching the raindrops trickle down the Plexiglas, I realize they aren’t what they appear to be at all, but rather the reflection of my own tears streaming down my cheeks. I'm sitting on the runway of the Pittsburgh International airport waiting for my flight to leave this God awful place. Getting out of here can't happen fast enough.
Who am I kidding? I love Pennsylvania. It's beautiful, and the people alone are worth staying for—except for one, of course. But right now, for my own sanity, I need to leave.
I lean my head against the hard plastic of this massive hunk of metal that will eventually take me into the gray skies. I close my heavy eyelids to suppress the ache that has taken over my weak heart.
"Ma'am, we are getting ready for take-off. You will need to put your chair up and buckle please."
I jolt from my seat and quickly turn to see the flight attendant smiling down at me. I simply nod my response and do as she asks, then watch as she quietly moves on to the rear of the plane.
The seat next to me is still empty, and hopefully it stays that way. I don't feel like making pleasantries with a stranger at the moment. I prefer to be alone and not have to answer to anyone about why I can't seem to wipe the streaks off my face fast enough. Once again, I close my eyelids and try to dream about my future. Palm trees, blue oceans, boardwalks, distance, and seclusion. Maybe one day a man . . . or not. A smile spreads across my face at what could be my life. It doesn’t take long for me to realize I am so emotionally far away from having anything remotely close to a normal life, after the way Jack treated me. They say bad things happen for a reason. If so, it’s a reason I am not quite sure of yet, but hopefully in due time it will come to me. After returning to my small cocoon of a seat next to the window of this plane, I close my eyes and wistfully wipe the salty water dripping down my cheeks.
The roar of the engines oddly brings a sense of peace to me. It means I am finally leaving this town and all the bad it has brought to me. My body quickly relaxes and pulls me into a slight slumber. I haven't been able to relax in the weeks leading up to this point. However, once Jack realizes I'm gone . . . oh heck, who am I kidding? Once Jack realizes I'm gone, he'll be happy, but at this moment Jack is at work, and he has no idea I'm gone. Not that it matters. Clearly, I don't matter. And he will finally be able to screw anyone he wants. No more making excuses as to why he has to work late or why his secretary has to attend every business trip he goes on.
My half-lidded eyes stare out through the small rectangular window as the plane passes all the puffy white clouds. I sit here and wonder what the world has in store for me, drifting in and out of semi-consciousness until the tears finally subside. Thank God nobody is sitting next to me, as I'm sure I must look ridiculous with the way my head keeps bobbing. Without opening my eyes, I reach for my sweater on my lap and stuff it between my shoulder and the airplane wall.
"It's like Heaven, isn't it?" A husky voice next to my ear sullenly ripples through my dream-like state.
I turn my gaze to the left and see the prettiest dark brown eyes I have ever seen. Just like the flight attendant, I nod my response. Where did he come from? I keep my stare on the mysterious man for just a fraction of a second, before returning my attention to the fluffy white clouds outside in the now clearest of skies. I backtrack my thoughts to dwell on my bleak, empty, so-called life. It sends me into a, what am I going to do with my life, kind of state. How do I interact with people? How will I ever be able to trust again?
My thoughts are quickly interrupted by the mysterious man beside me. Again. Where did he come from, anyway? I know for a fact he wasn't there when I closed my eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you,” he says.
I focus my attention in the direction of the brown-eyed man beside me. My eyes graze down to his semi-buttoned-up, teal-colored polyester shirt. His focus seems to be more on me than the clear skies of Mother Nature. Cautiously, I gaze into his eyes, while sneaking quick glances down to his full lips. The silence in the room—or should I say flying cylinder—seems to dissipate quickly. Even the engines seem to quiet just a little. I blink a few times and give myself a second to fully indulge in what seems to be the closest thing to a man showing me any attention in months.
I allow myself to feel again.
To most, it would seem crazy—insane even—but I've been dead inside for so long that the smallest of glances or the tiniest of touches can feel like the biggest of compliments. Not wanting to continue anymore conversation, I divert my attention back to the open sky.
So close, yet so far away. Will I ever be free? Will I ever be able to make casual conversation with people around me? Trust. Will I ever be able to trust someone again?
I attempt to keep to myself, and return my focus out the window. I even shift my legs so that my knees lean against the wall of the plane, just to make it clear that I want to be left alone.
Time goes by, and it dawns on me that the man next to me with the full lips is perfectly happy to halt our conversation. Which is good. I think. What was it he asked again? It's like Heaven? I'm not even sure what he means by that. I close my eyes, push his odd question to the back of my mind, and resume being alone.
I'm not sure how much time passes, but I am suddenly jolted out of a deep sleep when the pit of my stomach begins to hit rock bottom. My hands grip the armrests beside me. Another hand securely fastens over the top of my left hand, and
I tense up. Not from the contact, but from the bouncing up and down the airplane is doing. I roll my hand over and grasp tightly to the fingers splayed over mine. Panic sets in, and all of a sudden I am brought back to the here and now. What's going on?
"It's just the plane descending is all," his smooth as silk voice answers me as if I had asked aloud.
I pull my gaze back to him. He tries to rest his other hand on top of our joined hands, but I quickly pull back and lean against the wall of the plane. Why does he feel the need to keep touching me? He doesn't look at me though. His stare fixates on his own hand paused in the air. I think he's also wondering why he reached for me. He slowly pulls back and rests the palms of his hands over the denim jeans that cover his thighs. Neither of us say a word, but the strange tension is already there.
I feel the wheels of the plane touch the ground, and it breaks the silent connection between us. Us?
A voice comes over the speakers in the plane. "The current temperature in Dallas is eighty-four degrees. Due to our late takeoff, we are arriving forty-five minutes late," the pilot announces.
No! Is he serious? I hope my connecting flight to San Diego is also pushed back. I can't miss it.
As if mocking my thoughts, the pilot gets back on the microphone and announces my downfall. "For those of you with a connecting flight to San Diego, please see the attendant once you exit the aircraft. They will make sure you are on the next available flight out. Again, we apologize for this inconvenience."
I close my eyes and abruptly pound the back of my head against the seat a couple of times. "This can't be happening. This is just my luck," I say and grunt.
"I take it you were supposed to be on that connecting flight?"
I roll my head to the side to glance at Mr. Touchy feely. Pursing my lips, I answer, "Yes, I was." I keep my gaze on his, but he doesn't say another word. Why did he ask me a question, only to not respond when I answer him? Men. What the hell is wrong with them?
The voice from someone in front of me breaks our, once again, non-verbal communication. "Seriously? I was supposed to be on it too."
I turn to see a forehead and two eyeballs staring at me from between the two seats in front of me.
"Me too!" someone hollers from a few rows back.
"Well, at least I'm not alone," I mutter under my breath. The urge to converse with another human being at the moment still eludes me.
I, and the other two individuals that complained about the connecting flight, are patiently waiting to talk to the attendant just outside the gate. Well, I'm patiently waiting. The other two are talking shit about how worthless customer service is nowadays. My motto is, “If it's something that can't be helped, then why raise hell about it.” It's clearly not this lady’s fault that we missed our connecting flight.
While the attendant helps an elderly woman find ground transportation to get to the other side of this spacious airport, I stand here quietly listening to the two college-aged kids complain. I lean against a large pillar and close my eyes, waiting for this mess to be resolved. It's been a long day, and I want nothing more than to just get to San Diego and relax with Chelsea. Maybe have a glass of wine or two.
Chelsea is my old college roommate. She is gracious enough to let me stay with her until I find a new job and a place of my own. She's been looking for a new roommate for several weeks anyway, so this all just kind of works out for the both of us. She is definitely my lifesaver. I think her needing a roommate gave me the window I was looking for to move my ass away from Jack.
"Okay, so the four of you are the ones with the missing connecting flight, right?" the attendant asks after she finishes up with the elderly woman.
"No, dang it! It's just us three," the other girl says next to me.
The three of us look at each other, and then the surrounding area, but we don't see anyone else close enough to us to be a part of our small group.
"Well, let's see. I have four people on my list," she says. “One was just added a few minutes ago,” she mutters under her breath.
Oh my god, this is going to take forever. Doesn't she realize we are all in a hurry to get to our final destination?
"Well, let me read off the names." She looks down at her printout and says the first name.
The young guy next to me huffs and groans, as if he is just as pissed off as the girl next to me is. Don't get me wrong, I'm just as mad, I just don't find the need to be all pissy about it.
"Do we have a Brea Sanders?" she asks.
"Yes, that's me," the girl next to me says and harshly breathes out.
"How about a Michael Bridges?"
"That would be me," the young guy next to me huffs.
"Okay. Well, how about Alli Bane."
"Yes, ma'am. That's me." There she read all three names. Why does she think there are four of us?
The attendant slides her finger down the paper just a little more, then continues, "And last but not least, do we have Chris McCall?" She looks around, while keeping her finger pointing at the name.
The three of us look at one another, as Michael raises his hands in complete shock as to why the attendant can't see that it's clearly just the three of us.
"Right here," a voice from a seat a few rows away mumbles. He sounds familiar, but I can't quite place it.
We all look over and see a man sitting with a cap pulled down low over his forehead like he's hiding. He slowly looks up at us, and that's when I realize who it is.
It's him.
Mr. Touchy-Feely himself.
"Oh no," I mumble under my breath so that nobody can hear me.
Suddenly, he casts his gaze onto me and I cannot seem to break the trance. Why does he do this to me?
"Mr. McCall, why don't you join us over here so we can discuss options for a connecting flight." The attendant flashes a sexy smile at him, and it makes me want to vomit. Please, can you be any more obvious?
Chris, once again, rubs the palms of his hands on his denim jeans over his thighs, then begins to stand up.
He makes his way over to the four of us, before the attendant continues, "Okay. Now that we have everyone here, I need to tell you that due to the late hour, we no longer have any connecting flights to San Diego."
Brea and Michael begin huffing, puffing, and whining even more than before. However, Chris seems to be quiet and not willing to put in his two cents. I don't either, and I'm not sure why. I am not even sure what the other two are saying, but the four of us begin to follow the attendant to an area where, supposedly, people in our situation are brought when they are in this predicament.
As I follow the group, I am not even sure what we are doing. The attendant is talking, but I think my mind is stuck on mister brown eyes. Why didn't he say something on the plane when Brea and I said we were supposed to be on that connecting flight? What is his problem?
"So, you are welcome to stay here until we have a flight available in the morning." The attendant swings her arm through a doorway in a rather large room.
Stay here? As in the four of us stay in this room together? I look around and see absolutely nothing. No beds, no tables . . . nothing.
"Or, you are welcome to take a taxi to a nearby hotel. The choice is yours, but unfortunately we are not able to pay for the hotel room. I think I can manage to get the taxi paid for if the four of you share one though."
"I don't have money for a room?" Brea whines, as Michael seems to mimic her exact words.
They’re college kids, so I'm sure money is tight.
"I guess I'll have to stay here. But there better be a flight first thing in the morning," Michael demands.
"I assure you, I have the four of you booked on the first flight out."
I wait for Mr. Touchy Feely to say something, but he doesn't. I look around the room, and it appears to be space used for yoga or something. There are exercise mats stacked in a corner, and airline blankets piled next to them. I suppose I have everything I need to make it one night in this place.
&nb
sp; Not wanting to be an outcast, I agree to stay here. As long as Brea and Michael are staying, I should be good, too. Right?
I have no idea what Chris is going to do, but it kind of scares me to think he might opt to stay here with us. Not in a frightening way, but for some reason he seems to have an effect on me. Or is it that I have an effect on him? I have no idea, but the weirdness between us is definitely there.
The attendant looks to Chris and asks what he would like to do.
"Here is fine," he responds with his gaze fixed on mine.
I lower my head and stare at the floor, wondering how this night is going to go. The flight alone was odd enough. How can we make it a whole night in the same room with the palpable awkwardness?
The airport attendant eventually leaves the four of us alone, after telling us that we have full access to a vending machine in the small room located just through a doorway in the far corner of the room. There is a bathroom for us to use as well.
Michael and Brea immediately walk over, and they each grab a yoga mat and blanket. They seem to stick together like they know each other. I hear them chatting in their own private conversation about who they are, what schools they attend, and so forth, so it's clear they are just meeting each other as well.
Keeping to myself, I shuffle over and grab a blanket and yoga mat as well. I take up temporary residence at the far end of the room, making sure that Chris has a dozen other spots to pick that would leave us no need to communicate.
I begin to shake out the neatly folded navy blue blanket, before kneeling down and laying it over me. I am minding my own business when I hear the rustling of another yoga mat being situated not too far from me. I glance up and see that Chris has decided to plop down catty corner from me. Clearly he feels that being near me is better than being secluded in his own little corner.
"Ugh." I grunt just a little too loud, and he notices. Not my intent, but I'm sure he won't say anything anyway.
