Her house beckoned to him, innocently welcoming him because it didn’t realize who he was. So much for his theory of bursting into flames when he stepped on her property. Then again, he hadn’t rung the doorbell yet.
He stood on her porch for a moment, able to see inside through the narrow window on the side of the front door. He could see the muted gray walls, the high end furnishings, the proof of her talent as an interior decorator. Of course he already knew how gifted she was; she’d fully redone Matthew’s house as well.
Chris extended a clammy hand towards the doorbell, pressing it hesitantly with a shaking index finger. Melodious charms rang through the home, much like the sound of her laughter. God, he had it bad, even now. He stepped to the side to conceal as much of his body as he could, lest she peer through the window before opening the door.
His breath caught in his lungs as he heard the deadbolt click open, then the lock release on the doorknob. The front door opened and she appeared, the closest he’d been to her in what seemed like an eternity.
For a glorious moment, she stood before him, even more beautiful than he’d remembered. Her blond hair fell artfully around her shoulders, her blue eyes practically leapt off of her face. Her already porcelain skin reddened before draining of all color. She was frozen, like a deer in headlights. Until she wasn’t anymore. Recognition hit her all at once as she drank him in, then her face hardened and her wall was rebuilt.
Desperate, Chris inserted his foot between the doorjamb and the door. He wouldn’t let her shut him out again that easily. Her eyes traveled down the length of his leg to his boot, then back up to his face.
There was so much that he wanted to say, so many years of thoughts that lingered upon his tongue. He stopped himself from succumbing to verbal diarrhea and instead said the first thing that came to mind. Even if she slammed the door in his face – or more specifically – on his foot, at least he’d had the nerve to say something, anything at all. And so he uttered three benign words, filling them with as much inflection and meaning as possible.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Blake.”
Acknowledgements
Thank you to the Matthew in my own life for being super supportive and not complaining too much that he happens to share the same name as the character. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I created Matthew Snyder years before I met my real life one. Sometimes the characters in your head are so indelible that you can’t rename them – for me the story would have read much differently had I changed the name to anything else. I am beyond lucky to have you in my life and I appreciate you putting up with the emo writer chick that I can be at times.
Thanks are also in order to my little girls. Even though you’re almost as tall as me now, that’s what you will always be. I’m grateful for your understanding when I needed to put in my earbuds and type away. Thanks for not making too much fun of me when you caught me in tears in front of the laptop while writing Chapter Twenty-Two. Thanks for thinking that what I do is cool and celebrating that I’ve finally finished this one. You’ll both find out soon enough that this journey is about to continue and I’ll never truly be finished writing my stories.
To my awesome support system of Cara, Chrissy, Jen and JoEllen who have been with me through two books now and still care about these characters almost as much as I do. Your enthusiasm and breathless texts and emails while reading make me think that I’m not too silly for giving this author thing a shot. Thanks for letting me discuss plot points and theories with you until the point of exhaustion and for convincing me that my plans for book three, four and now five are on point, even if they may be a little unconventional.
Thanks again to Parabelle for supplying some excellent background music. As promised, I name-dropped you a couple times in this one as well because your creativity left such an impression with me. How you managed to provide the right songs at just the right time is beyond me, but I’ll gladly take it. Unlike during the writing of book one, I listened to various other artists with this one (and sometimes complete silence) but you’re still my emotional favorite for the storyline arc of Matthew and Lauren. I owe you a thousand smiley faces for the one you’ve given me.
Last but not least, thanks to my wonderful readers past, present and future. Without you, I’d be just another aspiring author and not an actual one.
About the Author
Alicia Renee Kline started writing in elementary school and never really stopped. Through the magic of self-publishing, she’s been able to realize her dream of seeing her books available to the general public.
She resides in Northeastern Indiana with her husband and two daughters. In her non-author life, she works in the insurance industry. When she’s not busy creating her own storylines or blogging about writing, she enjoys reading other authors (usually romance, chick lit or crime dramas).
To learn more about Alicia and the rest of the Intoxicated crew, visit her website at aliciareneekline.com or follow her on Twitter at @readaliciarenee. She loves to hear from her readers and welcomes your comments and discussions.
You can also follow Gracie and Blake on Twitter, too. Check them out at @msgraciea and @blakevsnyder.
Titles by Alicia Renee Kline
The Intoxicated Series
Intoxicated
Shattered
Designed (coming soon)
Now that Lauren and Matthew are well on their way to having their happy ever after, it’s time to focus on Blake. Don’t worry; it’s not possible to have a Blake book without a good dose of her darling brother. Read on for a sneak peek of Designed, coming soon…
I was lucky that I wasn’t the only one who didn’t like holidays. The whole family togetherness ship had sailed for me ages ago. About eight years to be exact. The night that my parents had unceremoniously kicked both my brother and me out of their sprawling contemporary home. In all actuality, it was really only me that had been tossed out on my ear that evening. Matthew was already gone, though the unspoken understanding was that he would never be allowed back again, either.
Nothing said “Happy Holidays” quite like being disowned.
So while most of America denounced the corporate greed that kept employees away from their families on Thanksgiving, I applauded the places that remained open on the fourth Thursday in November. Especially the hole in the wall bar that I’d gone to in order to pick up my latest companion.
I was pretty sure his name was Trent. Or Tim. Or Toby. The name he’d given me could have been fake; I wasn’t one to judge. After all, my name wasn’t Ashley like I’d told him. It didn’t matter anyway since we’d never see each other again.
I hadn’t meant to fall asleep.
His snoring woke me up. My eyes snapped open, my body instantly at attention. My eyes worked to adjust to the utter darkness. My mind struggled to clear the cobwebs that came with slumber. As I recounted exactly where I was and what I had been doing here, I peeled his fingers away from my bare breasts. He moaned softly but relinquished his grasp on my flesh and allowed me to climb out of his bed.
By now, I was able to distinguish the outline of his dresser, pressed severely against the wall opposite the bed. His bedroom was a small space and if he’d wanted the piece of furniture any further from his queen sized bed, he’d have to put it in the other room.
The lack of square footage wasn’t doing anything to assist with me finding my clothing, however. The pitch blackness of the room was courtesy of the single window being draped with a heavy curtain that didn’t allow any outside light in. I dropped to my knees and felt around frantically with my hands, trying to push the reality of me being naked and crawling around on some guy’s carpeting to the furthest recesses of my mind.
I breathed a quiet sigh of relief as my fingers connected with the familiar fabric of my sweatshirt. My other items must be close. I pulled the garment over my head and hit the jackpot a few seconds later when I made contact with my underwear and jeans. I was more than a little disappointed that I couldn�
��t locate my bra, but supposed that was the price you paid for a last minute hookup. I certainly wasn’t going to wait around for morning just to retrieve a piece of lingerie. He could consider it a souvenir of our time together, a testament that it hadn’t just been a vivid dream.
Whatever. I needed to get the hell out of there.
As quietly as possible, I made my way into his living room to search for my purse and my shoes. This task was much easier as they were right by the door. I slid my bare feet into my tennis shoes, my socks also left behind in the mad dash for escape. I grabbed my purse and opened the front door in one swift motion.
The hallway of the apartment complex greeted me, a welcome sight even though it smelled much like a mixture of mildew and marijuana. Nice place. I gently latched his door behind me and wrapped my arms about myself, hugging my purse a little tighter to my body as I passed quickly by a lanky guy with greasy hair – most likely the source of the aroma. He stood with his frame leaning against the wall with its peeling paint as if he couldn’t support the full weight of his body on his own accord.
“Good evening, princess,” he leered to my retreating figure.
“Fuck off,” I responded.
He replied with a laugh that sounded more than a little hysterical.
I was home free once I hit the lobby door and opened it to the outside. I practically ran to the safety of my Miata, parked just a few feet from the entrance to the complex. Even though it had been an unusually warm day for late fall in Indiana, the air now was decidedly crisp. I hadn’t thought to bring a jacket. Of course, I hadn’t exactly been in the best frame of mind when I’d left my house, either.
As much as I hated holidays in general, this Thanksgiving had been pretty good. I reminded myself that had absolutely nothing to do with what date the calendar had read and everything to do with what had happened. The events would have been just as special any other day of the year; their coming on Thanksgiving was just a matter of convenient scheduling.
My brother had gotten engaged, something that I wouldn’t ever have predicted a year ago. He’d met his match in Lauren, my ex-roommate, and after they’d created enough tumult in delaying the inevitable, they were finally going to make it official. The act itself had been in the planning stages for several weeks, what with me designing the perfect engagement ring and helping to map out the details of the proposal. The whole thing had gone perfectly; we laughed, we cried, everyone she cared about was there and she’d had no clue that it was coming. If my career in interior design ever got boring, I could always branch out into wedding planning.
That was me in a nutshell. I planned things for other people that were pulled off impeccably, all while my own existence crumbled around me.
For a moment I’d been able to live vicariously through Matthew. I’d been able to pretend that maybe my luck was about to change; that if he could finally find happiness, so could I. I adored Lauren even though I knew she doubted her role in my life and couldn’t imagine a better sister-in-law. Maybe the tides were turning and the Snyder siblings could actually have a happy ending.
My rosy outlook on life had been short-lived. I’d returned home high on life and love and the promise of creating a new family. My world had gone to hell in a handbasket mere minutes later.
I never should have answered the door. I hadn’t been expecting company; I’d just seen everyone I truly knew over at Matthew’s house. But when the doorbell rang it was a trained response to answer it. Considering that my brother and Lauren had keys to my place and they were the only ones who visited anyway, the sound of the chimes was an anomaly and I’d been anxious to investigate.
I’d quickly learned that I’d been wrong in my earlier assessment. Everyone that I truly knew had been over at Matthew’s for Thanksgiving dinner minus one. And the man in question had stood on my porch, his face as ashen as mine had felt.
As we’d stood and stared at each other, my heart had seized in my chest. He was every bit as handsome as I’d remembered and for a split second I’d been reduced to the high school sophomore I’d been when I’d first noticed him as anything other than my brother’s best friend. A large part of me had wanted to grab him by the arm and drag him inside, pretending that the last eight years had never happened. I’d wanted to hold him, to hear him out, to tell him the things he didn’t know.
Instead I’d barely let him get a word out, steeling my demeanor against his practiced script. I could tell by the way he’d stumbled over his thoughts that I still affected him. He would have accepted my invitation had it been given. For his efforts, I’d granted him the opportunity to speak a few sentences prior to slamming the door in his face. I’d not said a word, merely drinking him in and hoping I could remember that glimpse of him for the rest of my life.
I wondered if he’d heard my sobs as he’d retreated from my house.
Instinctively I’d fled, too, once I’d pulled myself together well enough to be presentable. And I’d ended up going home with yet another guy, the first one who’d caught my eye in a good way. It hadn’t taken long before we were kissing and having sex and I was imagining being with someone else entirely. The random guy hadn’t seemed to mind – they never did.
It was nearly three in the morning when I pulled the Miata into my garage. I slunk through my empty house in the darkness, not needing to turn on the lights to find my way to the bedroom. As was my routine after a one-night stand, I headed straight for the shower, turning the faucet as hot as it would go. While I waited for the water to heat up, I tore off my clothing, throwing it into a pile on the floor.
I studied myself in the mirror. My features were a feminine representation of my brother’s; I wasn’t being arrogant when I complemented his beauty. I knew we shared the same eyes, the same coloring, but I couldn’t bear to call myself pretty. My outer packaging was appealing but inside I was ugly. Couldn’t the guys whose heads I turned see that reflected in my face?
I yanked the ponytail holder from my hair, letting my blond waves pool over my bare shoulders. The locks were messy now, tangled from my rebellion earlier. Most people assumed that I was a bottle blond but I wasn’t. The only dye to touch those strands was visible in the form of a blue streak about an inch wide that hung by my face, peeking out amidst the platinum. The color I’d chosen matched my eyes and it had been there for so long I couldn’t remember it not being a part of me.
The same was true of the tiny diamond stud that took up residence in my left nostril. I remembered a time when it had been a big deal to have a facial piercing let alone a crayon-inspired hair color and had thrived off of the shock value both had produced. They’d been the first modifications I’d made to myself after I’d been forced to move out of my childhood home. The tattoos had come later, but all were a way to denounce my formerly upper middle classness. Nowadays they were much more mainstream and no one seemed to give any of them a second thought. But I’d grown so used to them that it was like they’d always been there. I wasn’t about to let them go.
I’d let too many other things go.
I climbed in the shower, gasping at the scalding hot water. It didn’t take long for my skin to adjust to the temperature. I’d done this so many times before. I quickly washed myself, imagining all of the guilt and the regret sliding down the drain along with the suds. Once physically clean, I lowered myself to the floor of the stall and let the hot water beat down on me as I clutched my legs to my chest and rocked back and forth, sobbing.
Sometimes it was nice living alone. Like now, when I was able to have an emotional breakdown without anyone knowing any better. When Lauren had lived here, I’d done pretty good at covering them up but she had witnessed a few of them. God love her, she always wanted to help.
But I didn’t need anyone to psychoanalyze me. I already knew the cold, hard truth.
I was way beyond the point of being helped.
Shattered Page 34
