by Zoey Derrick
Contents
Title Page
Title Page copy
Copyright
Dedication
Blank Page
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
SNEAK PEEK
GIVE ME REASON
THE REASON SERIES BOOK ONE
GIVE ME REASON
THE REASON SERIES BOOK ONE
ZOEY DERRICK
Copyright © 2013 ZOEY DERRICK
All rights reserved.
ISBN:
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THE REASON SERIES is dedicated to all the woman around the world who are or have been victims of domestic violence.
GIVE ME REASON is dedicated to my AMAZING sidekick Rachel and your support, love and overall begging has kept me going.
PROLOGUE
An angel is he
Alone in this world
With the wealth of three
He'll meet his true love
Answering her song
His wings he will grow
His heart will respond
Him she will follow
His wife she will be
Two joined making three
What had at first appeared to be a faint birthmark slowly morphed into something more. The lines became more defined. Smooth to the touch but appearing shadowed, three-dimensional. And they seemed to flicker, to dance, to be alive.
In the beginning, the lines grew quickly. It took his mother years to realize that they weren’t merely random, that they appeared to form a shape or pattern. Of what, it was hard to tell.
Doctors could never explain it because they could never see it; the lines remained a concern with his mother throughout his childhood. Then, when he was eight, the lines stopped changing.
They remained the same until tragedy struck: He’d been helpless to save his family. The changes began anew, with the lines morphing and becoming more pronounced over time. Soon they started sending tingling sensations across his skin. Sensations that were rare and seemingly random.
Until today.
Normally he’d be able to go about his day without too much trouble from the markings on his back. But over the course of today’s celebrations — groundbreaking on a new condo project his company has invested in — the pulsing prickles have gone from an irritating nuisance to downright painful. Finding the sensation to be too much to handle around other people, he leaves the cocktail social he’s been attending.
When he steps out the front door, he finds his driver.
"G'day, sir. Done so soon?"
"Aye," he says, looking at his driver. Just as the car door opens, the left side of his body hums harder and faster, pulsating, and a strong tugging sensation pulls on his arm. He stops, unsure what to make of it. The tugging has him curious. "I'm going to go for a walk."
"Sir," the driver says and closes the door.
"Stay close, though," he says, and turns to his left.
The moment he takes a step in the direction of the tug, the hum across his back dims slightly. After a couple of pulses and another step, the sensation spreads across his back in a starburst from between his shoulders. Another step and the pulse increases – marginally, but it's stronger still.
Another and another.
With each passing step the sensation gradually increases. After about three blocks it's starting to become painful. He sags under the heavy weight of the pain he is beginning to feel, which forces him to slow down.
Up ahead, the word diner is shadowed backwards across the sidewalk. His eyes flicker up to the source of the shadow: light pouring through the windows behind large letters stickered on glass. Normally he wouldn’t have even noticed the rundown restaurant, but the hum in his back has turned to pulsing again, as if in excitement or anticipation.
With each step he takes, the pulse radiates across his entire body, the sensations across his back pushing him forward.
He glances up the sidewalk, and there’s a flash of bright white followed by ghosted stars. Rubbing at his eyes, he sputters, "What the hell?" He opens his eyes again, looks from side to side to check that his vision has returned to normal. His gaze lands upon what he’d subconsciously seen the first time.
Bright white light surrounding a red-haired, blue-eyed angel. Gorgeous.
The pulsing turns to a pleasurable buzzing sensation as the young lass walks toward the diner and goes inside. Her shoulders are slumped protectively around her body. He cocks his head, puzzled.
Suddenly his mind fills with a quick series of images — blurred and unrecognizable, but he has a sense of what he needs to do now, though it’s not clear to him what’s driving the need.
He takes a step and the hum ceases. Feeling the need to test his invisible guide, he takes a step backward. It roars across his skin in response. He turns around, takes a step away from the diner, and there’s a stab of pain between his shoulder blades so sharp it causes his knees to buckle.
Quickly, he turns and heads back toward the diner. The sensation levels out to a pleasurable buzzing as he closes in on the restaurant.
He can see her through the window. She’s heading toward a door in back, bright blue and white light engulfing her form. It’s beautiful. And so is she.
ONE
The chilly October air has me huddled inside my hoodie. My feet are swollen and sore, and I'm flat-out exhausted, but I slowly stagger into the diner that I started working at about a month ago.
Waitressing at Garrison’s Diner is far from my ideal job, but what can I say? It's a job, and the tips are...well, they’re tips. I've managed to survive. For now. It's Tuesday, usually a day off for me, but Nyssa, one of the other girls who works here, needed the evening off, so I stepped up to take her shift. Right now, every little bit helps.
"Hi, Viv," Laura calls from behind the counter as the bell on the front door announces my entrance.
"Hi, Laura," I say back, fake enthusiasm in my voice.
"How are you doing today?"
"Fine, I think." She gives me a quizzical look. The same look she gives me every time I give her that answer. I just nod slightly at her.
Laura is in her mid-fifties and has been working in this diner for at least the last thirty years. Her hair is nearly all gray, and the wrinkles in the corners of her eyes only appear when she smiles, which makes me think her smiles are genuine. She is very warm and motherly. Maybe this is why I find her s
o hard to handle some days.
I head toward the back to stow my bag, shed my hoodie and change into my stark white tennis shoes: a uniform requirement to go with your typical diner garb of a pink and white smock that flatters no figure.
I slide my hoodie off — not that the sweatshirt does much against the chilly Minneapolis rain — and notice the small bump rising from between my hips. I shiver. I've lost so much weight since the trip to the hospital two months ago that everything seems bigger and more pronounced on my body. My knees seem huge compared to the rest of my leg. My collarbones, shoulders and ribs are eerily prominent.
Looking back down at the bump, I realize that my boss, crabby old Bartie, is going to have a field day when he figures this out. He’s quick to think about the impact his staff may have on him and his precious diner. Thank goodness it's covered by my apron. For now.
I take a seat on the bench in front of the four lockers in the employee area and sigh. "How did we get here?" I say to no one. I can't believe that it's been two months since that asshole put me in the hospital. With each passing day going a little more quickly than the last, I'm finally beginning to feel more like myself, but the overly friendly, bubbly personality that I used to have after I got away from my mom is still lost inside.
But I don’t want to dwell on it anymore; I know I'll just end up in a crying heap on the floor. I take a deep breath and stand. Tying my apron around my waist, I stuff my hoodie and bag into the locker and head back out to the dining room, grabbing my timecard along the way and punching into the ancient time clock. It's four in the afternoon. I can already tell it's going to be a long night.
When I step back out into the diner, I’m greeted by the classic fifties diner décor in black, white, chrome and red. It no doubt looked great at one time, I suppose. Red faux leather booth benches, white tables with chrome trim that now sport a weathered, well-used look. On top of every table, jukeboxes and bottles of ketchup and mustard sit alongside sugar packets and napkins in old-school metal holders. The black and white checkers on the floor continue up the side of the counter that separates the dining room from the kitchen. The countertop itself is white with cherry red trim.
"Viv, there's a gentleman in the corner that just came in. Would you mind?" Laura says as soon as I clear the swinging door. I'm pretty sure Laura makes a point of giving me as many tables as she can because she knows I need the money. It's either that or laziness. Either way works fine for me; I'll take what I can get.
"Sure." I reach for a menu and head over toward the far side of the diner.
As I approach table twelve, I realize that its sole occupant is wearing a rather expensive-looking suit and tie. Having come from trailer parks in the middle of Podunk Nowhere, Everywhere, my idea of an expensive suit is something you’d find at JCPenney. But this...this looks to be more than that.
"Good afternoon," I say, my southern accent echoing through the diner. You usually can’t hear the accent, but it seems to come out when I'm trying to be friendly. I set the menu down in front of him.
"Thank you." His voice is deep, raspy. A bit of an accent rolling off his tongue. He grabs the menu and opens it. I cringe internally when I notice something stuck to the front cover. Ugh, that's so disgusting.
I shake off my mortification at the dirty menu and tell him, "Today's special is roasted turkey, mashed 'tatoes, gravy, with a side of veg’table medley."
I see him shake his head. "Would you eat that?" His question throws me off guard and I scowl at him. Right now I'm so hungry I'd eat a cow. Raw.
"Of course," I say softly. He is quick to catch the reverence in my voice about the mention of food. His head snaps up, hard, and he looks straight at me. His eyes are a deep blue-green. Ocean-like. Piercing straight into me. His gaze has me feeling like all my secrets are pouring from my body. It's unnerving and I try to tear my eyes away, but it’s like he’s got me under a spell. After a few heartbeats he releases me from his stare.
"So the special is not your favorite thing on the menu. What would you eat?" he asks, his voice rasping again. I still can't place the accent, but it's definitely not American. Irish maybe.
"The barbecue bacon burger is really good. With fries." I lean in a little and whisper slightly, so I'm not overheard by Radar-Ears Laura. "Avoid the slaw," I advise him. Having lived in Georgia a good portion of my life, I can say with authority that this slop Bartie calls coleslaw is a travesty. He nods in response and I find it hard to pull away. His scent has registered on me and I'm immediately drawn to him even more. It’s warm, clean. He smells of leather and a delicious cologne. Committing the scent to memory, I back away. "You want a few minutes?" I ask.
"No," he says, sharply, and with a strong sense of authority. "I'll have the barbecue bacon burger, no slaw." I smile. "Fries, a Coke, and a side of mayonnaise."
I write down his order, though I don't need to. It's committed to memory, but my ass-hat of a boss has this thing about proof. He seems to think everyone is stealing from him. "Anything else?"
"No." That authority is back in his voice. It's strange: His tone isn’t threatening or demanding, it just projects a sense of confidence and maybe even a little cockiness. Nonetheless, something tells me that this man knows what he wants and is not to be messed with.
"Okay, darlin’, I'll be back with your Coke," I say and turn toward the counter. As I walk back, I can feel his piercing eyes on me. I’m tempted to turn around just to show him I’m not one to be intimidated by a stare-down, but I don’t give him the satisfaction. Besides, he might get the wrong impression and think I’m flirting with him. Friendly maybe, but nothing more than that; I’m in no position to be flirting with someone intentionally.
"You were over there a long time," Laura says to me as I reach for a glass.
"He was having a hard time deciding what he wanted to eat," I say back, trying really hard to not be rude.
"Oh reeeaaallyyy..." she says, dragging out the last word.
I look up at her, shocked by her reaction. "What?" I say.
"You mean to tell me you weren't checking him out while you were over there?" I just shake my head and go back to filling the glass with ice and Coke. "Well he was sure checking you out."
"What's your point, Laura?" I say, and she glares at my tone.
"My point, Vivienne, is that he was checking you out and you flat-out ignored him. He's gorgeous. What is your problem?"
My eyes prickle with tears. My problem is that I'm broken and damaged and I don't need some deranged man to lust after right now. "I have a lot on my mind," I say out loud. Laura is insanely nice and sweet and — lest we forget — motherly. She doesn't need to know all the gory details.
"You always have a lot on your mind. You’re twenty-two years old, what more can be on your mind than going out with friends and having a good time?"
Oh, if you only knew. "You know that's not who I am," I say as I turn back toward Mr. Suit. I look up in his direction. He most certainly is watching me, his eyes a bright light in his otherwise dark features.
I finally take a moment to really look at him. He looks to be not much older than me, actually. Maybe twenty-five or twenty-six? His hair is black, slicked back except for a stray strand falling into his eyes. His jaw is hard and sharp, leading into a very strong, square chin. His lips are a soft pink, full, and he has deep-set, bright blue eyes. There’s an intensity to his gaze that has me so transfixed I nearly trip over my own feet as I make my way back to his table.
Damn it, Vivienne, get your head out of your ass, I scold myself as I approach his table. Tripping over my own feet and spilling Coke all down this guy’s front is just the kind of thing that would get me fired, and I can't afford to lose this job.
"Can I get you anything else right now?"
"No, I'm good, thanks," he says, his eyes still boring into me with that intense stare.
Luckily for me we get busy, and aside from bringing him his food and his check I manage to pretty much ignore him for the r
est of his meal. Which is why it surprises me when I go to clear the table and find a thirty percent tip.
TWO
No sooner do I set foot in the diner the next day for another shift than Mr. Suit from the night before shows up again. Our food is not that good. I can't imagine what on earth is bringing him back here again.
Laura takes to seating him, and I, of course, get left with the table. Tonight he asks me how I am, and we converse a little bit. Nothing too exciting. He orders the same thing as last night, and again I don't get to spend much time with him because we get busy.
He pays his tab, gives me another thirty percent tip and leaves.
Finally Thursday rolls around and I'm beyond exhausted. I've worked every day since Sunday. But I do what I need to in order to survive. I make squat for an hourly wage, and I lose a lot of money when it comes to tips paid with credit or debit cards because they're taxed through my meager paycheck. But luckily most of our customers pay cash, and I usually manage to walk out with about fifty dollars a week.
I find myself slightly disappointed when I'm in the diner for more than an hour and Mr. Suit from the last two nights hasn't shown up yet. Then I beat myself up for actually hoping he would come by again.
I head off to the back to grab some more silverware for the wrapping Laura and I are working on, and when I come back, I nearly drop the tub all over the floor.
Sitting at table twelve is none other than Mr. Suit himself. Looking as dashing as ever tonight in another suit and tie. If this man can afford to dress like that, why on earth does he eat here?
I look to Laura, who nods encouragingly, and I head on over to the table. Ironically enough, he has the same menu from the other night, the one I’d forgotten to clean. Obviously no one else has cleaned it, either.
