Wherever It Leads

by Adriana Locke

  Wherever It Leads

  Copyright (c) Adriana Locke, 2016

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Cover Art:

  Kari March, Kari March Designs

  Cover Photos:

  Dollar Photo Club

  Editing:

  Lisa Christman, Adept Edits

  Interior Design & Formatting:

  Christine Borgford, Perfectly Publishable

  Wherever It Leads

  Also by Adriana Locke

  Dedication

  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 22

  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

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  EPILOGUE

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Sacrifice by Adriana Locke

  Excerpt from Last Call by Staci Hart

  THE EXCEPTION SERIES

  (each novel can be read as a standalone)

  The Exception (book 1)

  Purchase from Amazon

  The Connection (book 1.5)

  Purchase from Amazon

  The Perception (book 2)

  Purchase from Amazon

  STANDALONE

  Sacrifice

  Purchase from Amazon

  To my mother.

  You taught me to work hard and not sweat the small stuff. I’m still working on the latter.

  Thank you for teaching me what a mother’s love is supposed to be . . . and how to make a great pizza. I love you.

  Fenton

  “Tell him I got his message yesterday and I don’t need him to blow me. But thank him for the offer.”

  Grabbing the nearest shopping cart and sliding it in front of me, I toggle the phone against my shoulder. It nearly slides off my rigid muscles, a mix of workout fatigue and work stress setting up shop across my back.

  Duke sighs through the phone, not even pretending to hide his frustration. “Fenton, that’s not true,” he says, exasperation thick in his voice. “He didn’t ask to blow you.”

  “Obviously it’s not fucking true. I just want to hear him have to deny it.”

  “You know what? Just forget I called. I’ll come up with a response myself.”

  “That’s probably the best idea you’ve had yet.”

  Duke sighs again, louder this time. I’m sure I’ve been an asshole to deal with since I hired him, but I gave him plenty of warning what he was getting into. This entire situation, the one he was hired to deal with, has been a complete clusterfuck from the start. There’s nothing more vexing than being able to fix a problem and having your hands tied behind your back while being needled that the problem exists. I know it exists. I’m keenly aware and no one wants it fixed more than me.

  “I’ll just tell them the status hasn’t changed.”

  “I could’ve taken care of this,” I bite out.

  “I know. I know.”

  “And they wouldn’t let me.”

  “I. Know.”

  “I know you know. Try to impart some of that knowledge to them. I’m playing by their rules right now, but I’m starting to lose patience with their—”

  “Fenton, you have to play by their rules. Otherwise—”

  “I’m heading into the store,” I interrupt. “The service is going to get shitty.”

  “Talk soon,” Duke says, ready to end the conversation anyway, and the line clicks off. I shove my phone into the pocket of my black athletic pants. My jaw pulses, the buzz from this morning’s workout now vanished.

  Ignoring the eyes of an uptight man perusing the apples, I skirt my cart left to avoid interaction. I have no idea why I chose today of all days to do my own grocery shopping. I could’ve waited three damn days until my housekeeper gets back from vacation.

  Steering clear of the apples and the negative energy rolling off the shopper, I head towards the bananas. I need to find the optimism I had five minutes ago before Duke called from the office and ruined my Saturday morning.

  The bananas are organic and perfectly ripe, so I pluck a bunch off the podium. I start to push away, but the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. A ruffle of unease scatters through my subconscious. I pause mid-step and glance around the store. People mill about, minding their own business, nothing out of the ordinary. I start to push away again when I spy the offender. A black piece of plastic peeks out from behind a bundle of bananas, the overhead light ricocheting off it and catching my eye.

  I reach behind the produce and pull out a black cell phone. Turning it over in my hand, it looks no worse for wear. I press the round button on the bottom and the screen lights up.

  Staring back at me are two gorgeous girls, probably a couple of years younger than me. Mid-twenties, I’d say. The dark-headed one is flashing a peace sign in a barely there white bikini. She’s hot as fuck. But it’s the blonde that draws my attention. She sits crossed-legged in shorts and a tank top on the beach, her hair falling around her narrow shoulders. Her body is covered, her stance demure, but there’s something striking about her that I can’t pinpoint. I almost can’t look away. Her blue-green eyes taunt me, tease me with a look that’s downright beguiling. The touches of vulnerability hidden behind her confidence intrigue me, make me want to hear her voice and know what she’s thinking.

  Laughing at my ridiculousness despite the heat rolling in my blood, I skim the store again. No one seems to be searching for the phone.

  I glance back down and my gaze goes immediately to the blonde. The curve of her hip has my thumb gliding over the screen.

  I should turn the phone in to management. It’s the logical, responsible thing to do.

  My feet don’t move.

  Losing your phone in the bananas doesn’t exactly shout responsibility.

  Taking a deep breath, I ponder my options. I can turn it in to Lost and Found and hope that they actually give it to her if she comes looking. Or . . . I could try to get in touch with her myself.

  Keep telling yourself you’re playing the Good Samaritan.

  Leaning against the produce display, I do a quick analysis. The odds of her finding it at the Help Desk aren’t great. Maybe fifty-fifty. Some bagger boy will probably see the lock screen and take it to the bathroom and jerk off. The odds of that are phenomenal. The odds
of me breaking the passcode aren’t great either, but if possible, would greatly increase her chances of getting it back.

  And the chance for me to see those eyes in person.

  I type in 0000.

  “Try again” flashes on the screen.

  1234.

  “Try again.”

  Steering the cart with my elbows towards the customer service desk, I run through possible passwords before I commit to my final try. I have one more chance before it locks me out for good and I have no choice but to turn it over to Bagger Boy and his bathroom break.

  I go for 1111, another overused password.

  It makes a clicking sound and the lock screen opens. The phone toggles in my hands, my jaw dropping in disbelief. It worked. The home screen is filled with apps over shiny gold wallpaper, waiting to be explored.

  Should I or shouldn’t I?

  My thumb glances over the photo album and I see the first photo.

  I definitely should.

  Brynne

  The oversized and absurdly overpriced cream-colored sofa cushions my landing. I flop, face first, onto the pillows and let myself sink into the down stuffing.

  “It’ll turn up,” my best friend, Presley Bradshaw, says from the other side the room. “It’s probably here and we’ve just overlooked it.”

  “We’ve looked everywhere.” My voice is muffled and I’m sure Pres can’t hear me, but I’m too despondent to care.

  Mementos of my life, especially my life before everything became discombobulated, is on that device. Pictures from beach bonfires with Presley and our little group of friends. Texts from my brother before he left the country for work. My music, notes, my entire life is recorded on that stupid. Little. Phone.

  I might just lie here until I die.

  “Brynne. Earth to Brynne.”

  Groaning, I summon the energy to roll onto my side. Presley is watching me with a quirked and perfectly arched brow.

  “What?” I mutter.

  “We’ll find it. If not, we’ll just go get you another one.”

  “I don’t want to just go get another one. I want mine.”

  “What does it matter? It’s a phone, Brynnie. We’ll just get you a better one! I’ll get you one like mine and we’ll pretend it’s a birthday present.”

  “It’s not that. I didn’t have my stuff backed up.”

  We exchange a glance and I watch the realization hit her. Her face falls.

  “Yeah,” I say, sitting up and pulling a pillow on my lap. I need it to warm my soul and bring me some comfort. But if there’s anything I know about finding comfort, it’s that a pillow isn’t going to give it to me. If it was that easy, these last few months wouldn’t have been so difficult to transverse.

  Presley sits beside me. “Do you have any idea where you left it? Think back. Where was the last place you had it?”

  The last place I remember having it was while I was talking to my mother. She was giving me the latest on Brady, which means she had no new information. Because my brother has been gone for four months now and there hasn’t been any break in weeks. They say when dealing with terrorists, silence is better than threats, but I’m not sure. Maybe silence means there’s nothing left to discuss, but I don’t tell my mother that. Not just because she couldn’t handle the idea, but because I can’t fathom saying it aloud. The thought alone makes me want to die.

  “At the coffee shop. I stuck it in my pocket while I paid for my latte,” I say. “That’s the last place I know I had it for sure.”

  “Don’t tell me the hottie with the Mohawk was working and you got sidetracked?”

  “Nooooo,” I draw out, but it’s kind of true. Or a lot true. But it’s not there because I went back and checked . . . and managed to snag Mohawk’s number, but I’m not telling her that right now. She’ll end up getting all wired and start planning our wedding, and I don’t need that. I need my damn phone.

  Presley rolls her eyes, knowing I’m lying, and pulls her hair into a wild knot at the top of her head. “We’ll discuss Mohawk later and I’ll find out why your face did that,” she says, waggling a finger in my direction. “For now, go through your brain. What happened after you got coffee?”

  “Well, I swung by the post office and then went to Angel’s Market. I stopped for gas and then came home.”

  “Did you call all of those places? Maybe some do-gooder found it and turned it in.”

  “I called from your phone while you were in the shower. No one has seen it,” I sigh. “I’m screwed.”

  My friend flashes me a sad smile. Her mouth opens and closes a few times. Although I don’t want to hear whatever she has to say, I know I will sooner or later, so we might as well get it over with.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Don’t let this do that to you.”

  “Do what to me?”

  “That,” she mutters, shaking her head. “That look like the world is out to get you. Because it’s not.” She fidgets in her seat, scooting away from me. I’m not sure if it’s to give me room or to keep me from strangling her, but it’s a good idea either way.

  I love Presley. But her inability to not say whatever she’s thinking sometimes makes me hate her . . . times like I think this is going to be.

  “The world is out to get me. That’s how it feels, Pres.”

  “Look, people lose their phones every day. This is not a conspiracy.”

  “My life is one colossal piece of evidence that the universe hates some people. At some point approximately a year ago, I did some great injustice to the world and it’s taken it upon itself to fuck me over.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Let me refresh your memory,” I fume. “I get accepted into the college of my dreams. I manage to get my brother’s best friend, Grant McDaniels, the boy I’d pined for all of six years, to fall in love with me as soon as he’s back from the Marines. We spend an ah-mazing year together—the best year of my life, mind you—and then he goes away to Africa for some fucked up job and comes home a weirdo. Within four months, I catch him with another woman, he gets my brother a job and they go back to Africa . . . only my brother doesn’t come home. And to top it off, I have to drop out of school to deal with everything.”

  “I know how bad it’s been for you. I’ve been here the whole time. I’ve seen it.”

  “So tell me how I fucked over karma.”

  “You didn’t. It’s a terrible aligning of the stars, I know. But this isn’t personal.”

  “Oh, it’s personal.” I jump off the sofa and turn to face her. “How is it not? My life goes from basically perfection to utter destruction in the course of a few months. How’s that not personal?”

  Presley watches me. “Because bad things happen to people every day. The people that make it through life without being complete assholes are the ones that can see the silver lining and go forward.”

  “I’m trying. I’m trying so hard to keep my head right and think Brady is going to come home. That this whole thing will change our family in a good way. That watching my boyfriend fuck a random blonde on the bathroom floor was somehow a positive in my life, but right now, it all seems like I’m being punished. I’m in this rut of losing and can’t get out.”

  “There’s a silver lining somewhere in Grant, but not Brady.” Her lips flip to a frown. “The fact that you haven’t had a complete breakdown is a miracle. I mean, he was freaking kidnapped in Zimbabwe. So, yeah, feel all pissy about that if you want.”

  “I want.”

  “Brady’s going to be fine, though. I’m telling you. He’s tough. And smart.” A grin teases her lips. “And so, so hot.”

  “Presley . . .”

  Her giggle pierces my heavy mood.

  “Stop,” I say, trying to stifle a laugh. I know she’s just going there to break the tension, not that she doesn’t believe it. She’s made it known my brother was “hotter than hell” a number of times since meeting him for Thanksgiving a couple of years back. And then she heard he was a
doctor and her jaw dropped. At least she didn’t ask for a physical.

  “Let’s try to call it again. And if we don’t find it, we’ll go to the carrier and get a new one and see if they can remotely disable your old one or whatever magic they do,” she says in her easy way.

  I start to argue, but the look on her face stops me. “Okay,” I say in defeat. “Let’s try it.”

  Presley picks up her phone and turns to face me again. “We need to get away for the weekend. I’ll just use Daddy’s credit card since mine’s at the limit—thanks to the sale at Kitson on Melrose—and we can go somewhere fun.” She taps her lips with the tip of her finger. “How do you feel about Tybee Island?”

  “I feel like you’re crazy.”

  She laughs, having heard that from me a number of times over the course of our friendship. When I met her at the beach a couple of summers ago, I never imagined she was as carefree as she is. She was lamenting a red wine stain on her new white bikini and I mistook her for an uptight bitch. She set me straight, waving a finger in my face, then offered me a glass of the offending wine, and we’ve been best friends ever since.

  “I’m not crazy. I’m fun. There’s a huge difference.”

  Before she can continue, her phone rings in her hand, a quirky little melody chirping through the room.

  “Hello?” Her eyes light up as she listens, a slow smile touching her lips. “No, I didn’t lose my phone today. But my friend did.”

  “Someone found it?” I leap across the room until I’m right in front of her. I try to hurry her along, to get more information, but she just waves a hand to silence me.

  “Why, yes, it was a great day on the beach.” She fans her face, her wide eyes sparkling with mischief. “I’m the one in the white bikini. My name is Presley Bradshaw, by the way.”

  She listens again, mouthing oh my God, before composing herself. “That’s Brynne Calloway. It’s her phone you have.”

  “Where?” I thunder. I’m bouncing up and down, saying a prayer of thanks that a do-gooder did find it, vowing to be a better person, cleanse my soul, eat less Snickers—whatever it takes to keep this good tide rising.