EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ®
www.evernightpublishing.com
Copyright© 2017 Amabel Daniels
ISBN: 978-1-77339-449-7
Cover Artist: Jay Aheer
Editor: M. Allison Lea
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
For Dawn, for your true blue support and encouragement to never give up writing.
ALWAYS WAS
Matter of Time, 1
Amabel Daniels
Copyright © 2017
Chapter One
San Francisco, California
Squeaks from the neon-pink soles of the passing nurse’s sneakers pricked at Samantha Millson’s concentration. She pulled her gaze from the professionally formatted business letter in her hands as she attempted to reread its message for the eighteenth time.
Glaring at the offending footwear causing the nails-on-slate kind of distraction, she couldn’t help but wonder why a designer would think mixing fluorescent, salmon-colored stripes with dull olive-green—and cyan laces—would ever result an appealing combination of hues on a pair of running shoes.
Crouched over in the hard, Cubist-style waiting room seat, Sammy inhaled deeply and returned her focus to the information in front of her. Too bad another skim couldn’t magically rearrange the words into something that didn’t spell dread.
Miss Millson.
As if addressing her so formally would make it impersonal, an executive strike from a faceless attorney’s office. Only the visage behind the letter was crystal-clear. Sammy couldn’t scrub out the image of her scowling, never-pleased grandfather Edgar, who’d had this missive written.
You will find in this document the announcement of a modification to a stipulation set forth which hereafter impacts the disbursement of monies and assets designated to you in the estate trust fund established under your name.
Fancy-ass way of a controlling old man saying, “Hey, kid, I’ve decided to royally fuck you over.”
Of course, no crude or simple English would be composed in the slip of paper she’d received in the mail five days ago. As if. A Millson, swearing?
In any other situation, she would have treated this letter and Edgar’s manipulation in the same vein she’d done to all of her past. The mansion that was her childhood home in Concord, New Hampshire. The instant access to all possessions and materials a young woman could ever want or need—designer clothes, endless credit card limits to dine at only five-star establishments, weekly scheduled manis and pedis, facials, and massages, space to rub elbows with other superficial beautiful people. Wealth and all the privileges of the upper one percent of the American economy. She’d walked away from it all without ever intending to accept anything from her family.
Except for now.
It was a funny thing, timing. How one senior citizen’s accident three thousand miles away in San Francisco could become intertwined with the sudden patriarchal mind games from her grandfather on the East Coast. Had the heartless scrooge sent her this information a week ago, Sammy would have shredded the correspondence and chucked it in the trash. Junk mail on expensive stationery.
With its arrival via post after Sammy’s neighbor Clare fell and stimulated a ripple effect of consequences, it was a document Sammy would be a fool to ignore, independence and stubbornness aside.
When Sammy had run away from home, both from the prison of the Millson Mansion and her expected academics at Dartmouth at the tender young age of eighteen, she’d done so with equal parts rebellion and desperation.
In the short time she’d attempted a stunt of rising like a phoenix from the ashes of her past and spitting good riddance to the ghosts in her memories, she’d started a new life. And matured enough to know how to pick the fights worth fighting.
Disowning her for quitting her classes? Losing ties to her family name was a blessing. Cutting her off from all her previous bank accounts? Meh, she’d sought a job like a normal person. Refusing to fund her education at the so-not-Ivy League community college of Las Positas outside Oakland? She’d never intended to ask for free tuition in the first place.
But her trust fund? Now that mattered. And she’d be damned if she lost it.
Bobbing her knee, Sammy checked the time on the ticking clock on the wall across from her. Still a few minutes to skim the letter again before Clare’s son-in-law was due to meet her in that stark, antiseptic-stinking hospital hallway.
Her cell buzzed in her pocket, and she extracted the device.
“Hey Jake,” she answered. Her older brother was one of the two people she’d still speak to. She’d cried over leaving him and their housekeeper Marta.
“Still going on your road trip, coming back home to talk to the Evil One?”
She’d already explained in their weekly chat the day before that she planned to return home to demand answers to why her trust fund was being yanked.
Instead of being rewarded the lump sum equivalent of about two million dollars on the day she graduated from college, it now seemed Sammy would see a big fat gift of thin air. No money. No upholding the trust fund arranged to present all Millson offspring a celebratory “allowance” for the accomplishment of graduating college.
“I…” God, it was still hard to say it out loud, to commit her plans to reality. “I have to come back. To talk to him.” I need that money.
Like the dependable sibling he was, Jake was livid that their grandfather was scheming something, and while he still resided near their childhood home, he was in no better position to bargain or negotiate on her behalf with the old man. Seemed he was tainted by association—having helped her run away using his car, and always defending her against the constant criticism she’d received all her life. Furious at the manipulation, Jake gave his word that he’d try to find out why the trust fund was being modified. But Sammy wasn’t holding out for much—Grandfather was a secretive scrooge.
“I should be leaving tomorrow. Stopping by to see Clare one last time now. Then I’ve got to clear the time off with Pablo at the tat shop.”
“I’ve got an idea,” he said.
“Oh, boy.”
“And a favor to ask.”
“Uh-huh…”
“How about a road trip companion?” he said.
Who? Him? It was sweet of him, but she couldn’t allow herself to take advantage of his protective nature. “Why would you fly out here only to drive back with me?”
“Not me.”
Sammy furrowed her brow. Then who?
“Remember Adam?” he asked.
She jerked upright in her seat, her eyes wide. Remember?
Adam. Adam Fallon. As in Jake’s best friend and baseball teammate—a teenager who hung out at the Millson Mansion all through those turbulent teen years? The guy all the girls fawned over, the student teachers grumbled about but smiled as they forgave his slight acts of misbehavior? That Adam?
Remember him? Did a girl ever forget her first crush? Could she lose memories of Adam any easier than she could forget the first painting she completed, or the initial spark of excitement when she’d sold her first drawing?
Even if she were a vegetable with irreversible amnesia, Sammy would never forget her childhood love, even if it had been a pathetic one-way street. Someone so profound, he was imprinted on her heart, not only in her mind.
“Adam Fall
on?” Jake asked. “We used to hang out in high school…?”
“We,” meaning him and Adam. Sammy was the reluctantly included tagalong kid sister.
“Of course I remember him. Black hair. Green eyes. Maybe six-twoish. Dimple on his left cheek. Played first base on your team until senior year. He loved Marta’s snickerdoodle cookies and hated her tuna salad. Burned his hand on a bottle rocket when we took him to Martha’s Vineyard that one Fourth of July weekend. Always wanted to have a Great Dane someday. Never remembered the lyrics to that Beastie Boys’ song. Favorite color was navy. Not blue. Only navy.”
How could I forget him when I still think about him nearly every day?
“Uh, right… That’s him.”
No need to share evidence of your infatuation, Sam.
Jake seemed to pause before he spoke again. Sammy sure as hell wasn’t going to embarrass herself with all the other factoids about his best friend. He didn’t comment any further on her vivid stroll down memory lane. “Well, he just got back from his last tour in the Army. Few months ago, actually. Anyway, he’s visiting a buddy over in Vegas, and when I told him you were coming back home for a visit, I thought you might be able to give him a ride.”
Sammy slammed her lids shut, squeezing welcome blackness into her vision as she tried to block Jake’s suggestion.
A ride. In her car? Across the country? He was enlisting her to allow that guy in her space, the small, shared space of her Honda, for some forty hours?
“W-why?”
“He’s supposed to check out some place in Vermont one of his friends passed on to him. He’s gotta pick up the key before the end of the month. Something about resolving the estate for the lawyers.”
The only reason she was briefly returning to New Hampshire was out of obligation—the need to secure her trust fund. This wasn’t a joy ride or some coming-of-age, getting-to-know-the-USA road trip. No vacation. And Adam wasn’t her responsibility—Clare took priority. Not like Sammy was the only person with a car. He couldn’t get a rental?
Jake continued in her silence. “He won’t admit it, but I think he saw some rough shit overseas. Seemed kinda low-spirited when I spoke to him. You know? Can’t imagine how the hell it could be easy for anyone to readjust to civilian life after so much violence and danger. I offered him a ride because I thought it’d be nice if he wasn’t alone.”
He offered a ride in her car, on her time.
And what was she? A damn therapist? Who was to say she wasn’t down and lost herself? Fiercer than her own troubles, Adam’s problems twisted her harder. Each word gripped her heart tighter, wringing the freedom for it to pump sustenance throughout her body.
She was too big-hearted to refuse helping others, even if she was too small-gutted to aid herself. Like her pending cross-country navigation—it would be all for Clare, not herself. And at huge costs to her sanity.
“So, what do you think, can you give him a ride?” Jake asked.
Sammy nearly missed his question as she fought the curiosity spearing through her thoughts, remembering, wondering. What would Adam look like now?
She was twelve when she’d first met him, he, fourteen. He’d had a lean body and thick shocks of hair as deeply shaded as her thickest charcoal crayon and seemingly as soft as the purest cashmere. Vibrant, verdant eyes like a cat’s—no, not a domesticated declawed feline—too feminine for such a rugged male. Like a puma’s, a predator’s. Sharp, alert, cunning.
“Sam?”
Blinking to snap from her reverie, she tugged the hood of her sweatshirt lower over her brow. “I’m not sure…”
But … Las Vegas was still an eastward city. A detour, but not a major reroute on the way homebound.
“You can’t just drive it all by yourself,” he said.
“I’ll have Ink with me.”
He snorted. “Clare’s pocket-size poodle?”
“Ink’s a Chorkie, not a poodle,” she said.
“It’s nearly fifty hours on the road. You’ll get tired. You could fall asleep on the road.”
“I made the trip before by myself.”
Jake sighed. “I have a hunch you were too scared to be tired that time.”
Sammy twitched her lips. Too true.
“Think about it. You guys can take turns. Share the costs for gas and lodging. Maybe you can do shifts of driving—sleep when he drives and vice versa. It could cut down the time.”
All valid points.
But she was thinking about it. Other than Pablo—and he was technically her boss—Sammy had no male friends, went out of her way to avoid the chance of being stuck near men.
Adam would be inches away, across the console. Every. Minute. Right. There.
Because he was Jake’s friend, and because she’d known him and crushed on him years ago, he somehow didn’t fall into the category of the general male population. Adam was in a very exclusive club. He wasn’t some guy the same as he could never be her guy. Off-limits courtesy of sibling dynamics. One must never have relations with big brother’s best friend. It was dogma.
Adam was vetted, had already passed the background check by simply being Jake’s friend. She knew him. She should be able to trust him.
But what if he wanted to talk? What if he asked too many questions? What if—
“Sammy? I need to clock in to work. Can you give him a ride?”
Last she’d seen of Adam, the first person she’d fallen in love with, even if it had been a tweeny-bopper infatuation fueled and tested by his constant involvement in her youth, was at his high school graduation. Only a week before he shipped out to boot camp, and then, poof—gone.
Curiosity earned more momentum, starting to overcome her hesitation. Does he still root for the Yankees? Is he still obsessed with eighties movies?
Low-spirited? How changed could he be from his time as a soldier? The boy she remembered and still fantasized about was never short on jokes or smart-ass quips, was full of charisma…
Jake whistled into the phone. “If you’re willing to help the man out, I gotta tell him to be ready for you to pick him up.”
The man. No longer a teen. A man. What kind of a man is Adam?
Sammy pressed her lips together, twisting her mouth and trying to bottle in her impulsive reply. “Fine!”
“Really?”
She glared at tiled floor, wishing it could have talked her out of the decision. “Why not? On the way, right?”
“Great. I’m pretty sure he’s staying at MGM. I’ll find out and text you the address. Maybe you can estimate when you’d get there and I can tell him to look out for you.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Thanks, Samster.”
If Jake wanted her on his good side to let his best friend mooch off her for a trans-continental car ride, using her most loathed nickname wasn’t helping matters.
Chapter Two
“You’re here already?”
Sammy glanced up at the man approaching her, realizing he’d been speaking to her.
Clare’s son-in-law took a seat across from her in the hospital hallway, slouching his middle-aged body onto a long, plastic mauve bench, his beer gut straining against the button-holes of his off-white shirt.
She tucked her phone into her pocket. Already? Knowing Clare was deathly terrified of hospitals and claustrophobic of spaces such as MRI contraptions, of course Sammy had come to visit her elderly neighbor prior to the scan. At her son-in-law’s tone and scoff, Sammy had the confirmation she didn’t need that Clare’s only living relative—remote as he was—gave not a damn about the sweet woman.
It would have been futile to briefly explain to the cold-hearted and selfish fool that Clare was not just her neighbor. She was her friend, a substitute of a role model, a mentor, a cherished dinner mate, and a stalwart and dependable business partner. Nothing would prevent Sammy from comforting Clare while she was recovering in a scary place.
“I’m on my lunch break.” She tossed the bland excuse instead, not wishing to expo
und on how much Clare mattered to her. Speaking to men wasn’t her strongest habit. To a gold-digger, much less.
“When’s she going to be done?” He exhaled air like he’d been patiently waiting for over an hour for results.
“Hopefully soon.” And hopefully she won’t be freaked out, poor woman.
Folding Edgar’s letter into sloppy quarters, Sammy leaned to her side and slid the paper into the back pocket of her jeans. She caught the son-in-law eyeing her suspiciously, racketing up her unease of being near him as the familiar anxiety swarmed up from the depths she tried to force it back down into.
What does he see? Why is he staring?
“What do you mean, lunch break?” he asked.
She squinted at him. Surely he was familiar with the titles of meals of the day. His gut alluded to plentiful knowledge of food.
“Typically around noon, people sit down and consume edible resources. For nourishment and energy. To keep the body fueled for a day’s worth of tasks.”
Though what you do all day, not having a job, I can only wonder.
“I know what lunch fucking means.”
No doubt. His irritated tone switched off her neutral yellow lights of alarm and illuminated the amber ones. It was her mantra to never aggravate men, to steer clear of even interacting with them. Of course, her not-so-sweet wit seemed to forget such instructions when riled.
“You say it like someone’s expecting you back to a desk,” he said.
And since he assumed her only source of income was from the royalties and advances she earned as the illustrator of Clare’s series of children’s books, she wasn’t surprised at his confusion.
“Someone is,” she said.
“You have another job—”
“Samantha Millson? She’s all done.” A nurse stepped close. “The doctor is waiting to review her recovery with you.”
Always Was Page 1
