by Brynne Asher
Paths
Brynne Asher
Published by Brynne Asher
[email protected]
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Other Books by Brynne Asher
The Carpino Series
Overflow – The Carpino Series, Book 1
Beautiful Life – The Carpino Series, Book 2
Athica Lane – The Carpino Series, Book 3
Killers Series
Vines – A Killers Novel, Book 1
Anthologies
Little Black Dress – An Anthology for Charity
Text Copyright © 2017 Brynne Asher
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author’s rights. Please purchase only authorized editions.
This book is a work of fiction.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedications
Prologue - I Fucked Up
Chapter 1 – The Middle-of-Nowhere Virginia
Chapter 2 – One Step at a Time
Chapter 3 – Cream Puff
Chapter 4 – We Found Her
Chapter 5 – The Tingle is Back
Chapter 6 – Here Come the Consequences
Chapter 7 – Lethal Recipe
Chapter 8 – Donuts and Dominoes
Chapter 9 – Figure Your Shit Out
Chapter 10 – You’re Sweet
Chapter 11 - Regrets
Chapter 12 – His Iliac Furrow
Chapter 13 – Don’t Call Me A Carrot Cake
Chapter 14 – You Give Good Dates
Chapter 15 – Friends
Chapter 16 – I Want You
Chapter 17 - Branded
Chapter 18 – I Settled
Chapter 19 – I’m Attached
Chapter 20 – Heavy?
Chapter 21 – I’ll Bring the Condoms
Chapter 22 – One, Two, Three, and Four
Chapter 23 – You’ve Sunk Me
Chapter 24 – Or Else
Chapter 25 – You Saved Me
Chapter 26 – Things Aren’t As They Seem
Chapter 27 – Orgasm Purgatory
Chapter 28 – Balls to the Wall
Epilogue
Dedications
To Elle –
Once upon a time two women lived across the street from one another and became sisters in spirit.
On a beautiful fall day, one called the other and said, “It’ll suck, but I think I want to try and write something.”
Like the best friend ever, she replied, “I promise to tell you if it sucks.”
After reading the first chapter, the one walked across the street and stood in the other’s kitchen looking relieved. “I’m so glad I don’t have to tell you it sucks.”
And so it began.
I love you.
To Layla Frost and Sarah Curtis –
What would I do without you two? Thank you for your daily friendship, our Saturday night raves, and for helping me become a better author.
And thank you for your continued patience when I send you millions of pictures of my dog, doing nothing exceptional, and ecstatically agreeing that she’s super cute.
To Rae Larand, Ivy, Laurie, Gi, Gillian, and Kristan –
Thank you for helping me make my book what it is. You all are the earrings and perfectly applied mascara to my final product.
And finally, to all my readers and bloggers –
Thank you for taking a chance on my books. Without you, I couldn’t do this.
A Note from the Author
I’m continually humbled that anyone wants to read my words. Not only do I dread doing it, but I suck at marketing my books, which makes me all the more grateful for YOU—my readers. So, I’m not going to drag it out. You’re awesome and I love you. I hope you enjoy Grady and Maya’s story as much I loved writing it.
Prologue - I Fucked Up
It’s fucking hot. The stench in this room is getting worse by the hour. It’s all I can do to focus on breathing.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
I never knew breathing could be a distraction, but it’s the only thing to focus on since it’s echoing in my ears from this damn thing tied over my head. The monotony of my breathing—keeping it steady, listening to myself exhale—almost makes me forget about the pain.
Almost, but not quite.
And as bad as the pain is, what’s worse is I don’t know where Crew is. They could have him—we’d just separated when they got me. I’ve never fucking hated myself more than right now, knowing he’s here because of me.
The door slams. They’re back with more yelling—again demanding to know who I am, who sent me, and how I found them. I get another warning, and just like all the other times, I’ve learned to brace because I know something’s gonna follow.
Fuck.
I bite back my groan, trying not to make a sound, but that felt like a pipe. Hanging from one arm, those hits fucking hurt. I’m pretty sure they cracked some ribs. Little do they know, I was taught how to take a beating—but a pipe? That’s new, even for me.
I go back to focusing on my breathing because there’s nothing more for me to do. I never realized how fucking big and heavy I was until all my weight is hanging by a thread—that thread being a rope, tearing through my skin.
More threats, demands, warnings. It’s all been bad—worse than I ever imagined—but listening to them speak in their language, this shit’s about to get even worse.
It doesn't matter how much I try, I can’t control my heartbeat. My breaths, which have been echoing in my head for what’s got to be almost twenty-four hours now, get louder and faster.
Focus, Grady. Focus on something.
Nothing. I can’t find one fucking thing to think about besides my good hand being tied to something hard. For the first time since they got me, I struggle. Thrashing and twisting makes the pain worse, but fuck me, I think I’m about to lose my hand, or at least my fingers one by one.
I’m not sure which would be worse.
Yeah, I fucked up.
My chest heaves, my lungs not able to keep up. It doesn’t matter how long this sack has been tied over my head, I suddenly feel smothered.
Then my body jerks, and not from another strike, hit, or thrash. I force myself to concentrate, making sure I still have all my extremities. It’s a noise. I've used them enough, I know instantly what it is.
A flashbang.
A lot of fucking gunfire mixed with screaming voices follow, all in their language. The commotion around me is too much. I tense and I feel the pain in m
y shoulder more than anything I’ve felt so far.
I hear bodies slam into others and two more gunshots ring out. That’s it.
Silence.
“Grady? You with me?”
Crew.
They didn’t get him.
Even with the pain, I exhale in relief. But I still can’t utter a word.
My good arm is untied and before I know it the weight of my body is lifted. That weight was so fucking heavy. Never felt anything like it, not even when I was seventeen. That weight would’ve been too much for most people at that age. Not me—not even then. That was when I created a new path for me and my family. Since then, I’ve felt free. Never a heavy day since.
Until now, when I fucked up and almost got Crew killed along with me. I almost got the one person I care about outside of my family killed and right when he found something to live for. That path led me here, hanging by a thread—beaten, bloodied, and almost dead.
He must’ve cut the rope. I groan in pain as the blood starts to flow, even as my arm falls limp to my side. When my ass hits the ground, Crew rips the stench-soaked cloth off my head. I have to squint from seeing light for the first time in almost twenty-four hours. My friend is bleeding from the mouth and a bruise is already forming on the side of his face.
He’s serious, all business, when he demands, “I’m gonna pop your shoulder back in. It can’t wait, then we’ve gotta get out of here.”
I wince and barely nod.
“Brace, I’ll go on three,” he warns.
I swallow and nod. Then, I brace.
“One … two …”
I scream, allowing the first sound I’ve made since they got me. “Fuck! You said three.”
Crew yanks me up by my good arm and I don’t know if I feel pain or relief in my shoulder.
“Sorry, man. It would’ve been worse on three. Come on, we’ve gotta get the fuck outta here.”
I shouldn’t feel the weight. No matter the condition of my body, all parts are still attached, and I’m alive. I should be light as a fucking feather.
As Crew drags me out of the broken-down makeshift warehouse—littered with bloody, dead bodies—I’ve never felt heavier.
Chapter 1 – The Middle-of-Nowhere Virginia
Maya –
“You sure you’ve never waited tables before?”
I look up at Maggie as I balance a plate on my forearm, another in the same hand, and pick up a third in the other. How do I answer without sounding like an entitled bitch?
“No. Just eaten out a lot I guess.”
Maybe that will appease her. It’s not a total lie. I have eaten out a lot, but it was either at my parents’ Country Club or five-star restaurants. And never would I tell the full truth, that I’ve been served my entire life at the house I grew up in.
“Well, you’re a natural. I didn’t know what to think when Addy gave you a job with no interview and not knowin’ your skills. That’s so Addy. To be honest, I was plain pickin’ mad I didn’t have a say in who was gonna help in my kitchen. You’re lucky you’re a natural. I know it’s hard to see, but I’m not usually so good-natured about things.”
I try not to let my eyes widen in surprise, disbelief or, when you get right down to it, fear. From the moment I met Maggie, I’ve done my best to please her. It’s a good thing I paid attention to how I was served all those years and enjoyed working in the kitchen with our cook. Maggie’s downright scary. I accidentally spilled a bowl of soup last week and I thought she was going to come undone. She didn’t care one bit that I burned my hand or offered to clean it up immediately.
I do my thing, get in and out of her kitchen as fast as I can, and smile every chance I get in hopes she doesn’t snap at me.
“Everyone’s been great to work with,” I tell her the truth, or mostly the truth. I’ve been here a while now, and I’ve learned how to best work with Maggie—that being to always agree with her, stay out of her way, and for the love of all things holy, don’t spill a drop of anything on her floor. The soup and I learned that the hard way.
With that, I swiftly exit her kitchen for the tasting room. It’s best to leave Maggie to her work, not chat too much, and never spill.
“Your meals,” I announce as I approach each guest from their left. This is a lesson learned as well—my mother would have a fit if we were served from the right. I guess one learns a lot about waiting tables when their help has been chastised in front of them their entire lives.
I’ve never thought about waiting tables, but I do enjoy it. Other than the rare difficult customer, everyone is pretty laid back. I realized this after a few weeks of work. Customers come for the environment and wine, wanting a chance to take a break from their hectic lives. This is something I’m not accustomed to, but during my short time here, I’ve mastered the art of appreciating it. Relaxing long enough to sit and enjoy life isn’t something I’ve ever been allowed to do. But if there was ever an environment to encourage it, it’s here.
The middle-of-nowhere Virginia where no one knows me has proven to be the perfect place to be. There are no preconceived notions that I’m an entitled bitch. Here, I get to be me, and after all this time juggling work between Whitetail and Rolling Hills Ranch, I’ve stayed tucked deep in the woods in my bungalow, as Addy calls it, and I’ve almost stopped looking over my shoulder. Almost.
There are days I find myself going hours without scanning my surroundings for anyone familiar, their people, or especially him. I never worry about my mom, though. She’d never bother herself with looking for me. She’d say she’s too busy with her philanthropies—pretending to solve the world’s issues.
But I think I’m good. I’ve found a little slice of heaven an hour outside of the Capitol. After driving far enough south, I found a part-time opening at an assisted living center. Even though I’m a physical therapist who graduated at the top of her class, I took a job as a part-time activities director.
It’s been an experience, to say the least. I can’t practice physical therapy in Virginia since I’m not licensed here yet and I hesitate starting that process. I’m worried I can be tracked somehow. I’m sure that’s the first thing they’ll be looking for since it was my only source of income. I spoke to the director about a possible position in the future, as the therapist on staff is slated to leave early next year, but I’m still apprehensive. I’ve done everything I can do to avoid a paper trail. The position hasn’t been promised to me, but they said they’d see how I interact with clients since they tend to be persnickety. The pay sucks, but for now I’m content with working hard to make their elderly clients like me.
When I left, I had no idea how to create a new identity—who does? It’s risky enough being lawfully employed, but it was a risk I had to take. I needed a job, but applying for my PT license in a new state would be pushing it.
My experience with seniors was nil, zippo, zilch. Both sets of my grandparents are snooty. They never baked cookies with us, took us to the zoo, or even had us for sleepovers. Nope, they were more of the children should be seen and not heard mentality. But I’ve bullshitted my way at the Ranch, just like I have here at Whitetail.
I had to do my research on activities for seniors. I’m actually surprised I even got the job, but I think I sealed the deal when I BS’d my way through the questions about activity and exercise during the interview. Health is what I know, so I went with it. I got the position on the spot.
Landing this job at Whitetail was a different story. When I met with Addy to rent her bungalow, I thought she handed me a job out of sheer pity. That was not a fun day for me. Pity is something I’ve been taught to loathe. One can pity others all the livelong day, but to be pitied is a sign of weakness.
<
br /> When Addy offered me a job, she had no idea how badly I needed out of my hellhole of a sleazy motel room. Not only was it the dirtiest place I’d ever experienced, but it was seriously scary and completely unsafe. I slid the dresser in front of the door every night, just in case. But what I’ve learned over the last month and a half is Addy didn’t pity me that day, she offered me pure kindness.
Kindness isn’t something I’m accustomed to.
I smile at the guests as they seem happy with their food and quickly go to clear two tables who have finished eating. Another lesson learned from my mother—no one wants to look at a dirty dish at their place setting.
After dropping them in the kitchen, I go to the bar to wash glasses and find Evan doing inventory.
“Maya, Maya, Maya. When are you going to come to poker night? You’re starting to give us a complex, you know.” When I look up, Evan is leaning back against the bar with his arms crossed and has a smirk on his face.
Evan towers over me, but he’s young. At twenty-four, he’s four years younger than me. He’s smart, self-assured, and good at his job as the tasting room manager. He’s my boss. I’d never say this to his face because I know guys hate it, but he’s nothing but pure cute. He oozes cuteness. He’s like my little brother who I hug just to annoy him, because I can’t help it. When Evan smiles, he’s off the scales adorable, and I want to ruffle his messy hair.
I shake my head and look back to my task, holding a glass up to the light to make sure there aren’t any water spots. “I told you, I don’t know how to play poker. I’d just slow the game down, and everyone would be frustrated but wouldn’t say anything because they’re too nice. I’d be a bother and I hate being a bother.”
“Mary didn’t know how to play and we taught her. Not knowing how to play isn’t an excuse. Maggie has an excuse, she…” He pauses and tips his head with a grimace. “Well, she’s Maggie. Claire would have to bring her kids, they’d tear down the Ordinary for sure. You have no excuse. It’s on a Monday, so you’re not working here, and you’re not leading Bingo because all the old codgers are asleep by the time we start. You’re coming next week.”
