by Susan Ward
Gone Guy
Sand & Fog series
Book 5
Susan Ward
Copyright © 2018 Susan Ward
ISBN-10: 1548925497
ISBN-13: 978-1548925499
All rights reserved.
All Rights Reserved. In Accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher or author constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The use of actors, artists and song titles, and lyrics throughout this book is done for storytelling purposes and should in no way be seen as an advertisement. Trademark names are used in an editorial fashion with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.
Contents
Title Page
Free Book Offer
About Willow & Eric
Dedication
Quote
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Epilogue
About The Author
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About Willow & Eric
What would you do if you fell in love twice and each time it was the same guy but you didn’t know it?
Willow…
The first time the man of my dreams entered my life he was a sexy Brit stranded in Seattle by his friends, who promised me everything and then broke my heart.
The second time he entered my life he was a sweet and tender street musician who woke up my broken heart and made my blood boil, but he left me yet again.
Only this time he returned and was a billionaire…
Eric…
I’m no Prince Charming. In fact, I used to be the love ’em and leave ’em type, and I’m pretty sure I’m exactly the kind of guy I wouldn’t want my sisters to date.
But I’m trying to be a better man, and that means finding Willow. The girl I left behind and can’t forget.
A lot’s changed in the seven years since I broke her heart in an unspeakable way.
My life is about making amends to the people I’ve wronged. She’s number five on my list.
If only I could tell her I was sorry and I wasn’t the same jerk I’d been. I’ve changed.
But not so much that I can’t see she’s a drop-dead gorgeous, sexy kitten I want as badly as I did the first time I saw her.
This isn’t what I planned. It’s complicated. I’m the guy who broke her heart seven years ago.
But make no mistake.
This time I’m making her mine…
Willow & Eric’s story is a two book miniseries. The books must be read in order to understand the story:
Part 1: Gone Guy
Part 2: Return to Us (releasing March 26, 2018)
Dedication
This story is for every girl who ever saw the good in a guy before he could see it in himself, and got her heart broken because of it.
Quote
“No one can have everything the way they want it. The man who tries usually ends up with nothing.” ~ Jackson Parker.
Chapter One
Eric
The present…
THE BUSHES’ RUSTLING CAUSES my lids to flare wide, and the sky above is that slowly lifting darkness you only see right before dawn on the rare clear day in Seattle.
I stay motionless even though the air pierces the skin of my face with the sharp bite of a subzero chilled ice pick.
The bushes rustle again, then there are scrunching sounds. Someone’s walking on the loose gravel that borders the greenbelt behind the trees where I set up camp last night.
Christ, I don’t want to move and check out what ruined the first good stretch of sleep I’ve had in days. But it’s almost morning and there’s no telling who the fuck is moving around out there.
Someone who wants to roll me for my top-of-the-line backpacking equipment. Someone who wants to sink a knife in me for my all-weather water-resistant boots. Or one of Seattle’s finest who wants to tell ole Eric the vagrant that I’ve gotta leave the park before some citizen sees me sleeping here.
Could be anyone. All three mean trouble, as if I don’t have enough without this too freaking early a.m. nuisance, but that’s pretty much my life these days: getting out of the way of other people and trouble before both land more crud on me. I’ve had enough trouble to last two lifetimes.
I jerk up into a sitting position, swivel, and look. Large worried brown eyes fix on me and I stay motionless, though I can’t do shit about that quiet chuckle rattling around in my chest.
Just a dog. The one I see running loose in the park during the day. A stray, like me.
Frowning, I study him for a moment. Maybe he’s hungry. I haven’t got much in my pack, but maybe he’d eat a power bar.
Keeping my eyes locked on his, I slowly move a hand to hold it out to him as I reach with the other for the convenience store meal in a wrap I saved in case I got hungry during the night.
The dog cautiously moves closer to my outstretched hand, sniffs, stares, then runs off. Shoot. We’ve been checking each other out for over a month and he still doesn’t want to be friends or even to accept food from me.
Not that I blame him. Dogs probably live by the same rules I do to survive: trust no one, keep to myself, sleep where it’s safe, eat when there’s food even when not hungry, and above all keep a wide berth from trouble.
Guess the little scruffy mutt thinks I’m trouble.
I turn my head to look in the other direction. Hank’s still zonked out on his bedroll, though it’s beyond me how the fuck he’s able to catch z’s with only that shabby thrift store sleeping bag and how cold the nights are.
My grandfather Jack used to say people can adapt to anything if they have to, even sleeping in a can
of worms. I don’t think he told me that for moments like this—who the hell could have seen this can of worms coming my way?—but I suddenly understand a lot of things Jack liked to say. Maybe if I understood it all earlier I wouldn’t have landed myself here.
Things shouldn’t have turned out like this. Every moment of my life until a year ago was pretty much like one of those happy fantasy flicks. Not the kind the average joe enjoys to give him hope that the world’s not rigged against him. That movie where the waitress is given a winning lottery ticket by a cop comes to mind, followed by a brief flash of one of those reality talent-find shows where some jackoff from the boondocks becomes America’s next star of the year and instantly skyrockets into a country music sensation.
I started my life pretty much at the top and had to work like a son of a bitch to become something akin to a homeless man. I partied too much. Listened not enough. Did too many drugs. Knew too many women and didn’t treat them as well as I should.
My older sister Kaley would say that’s karma landing your ass there, Eric. Yep, karma’s a bitch and your mistakes follow you wherever you go. It wouldn’t be so bad if I felt worse about some of the shit I pulled in my old life of fame, money, girls, and fast living.
I should probably never admit to anyone that I don’t regret all the shit I’ve done. There were some parts of who I used to be I fucking loved, even if I didn’t always like me.
But then, maybe it’s fair, karma again, that I don’t regret it all. The things I do regret have kept me in Seattle. I’m reasonably confident that’s a relief to those who love me. And the things I don’t regret enough yet are in Pacific Palisades, California, where the majority of my family resides, waiting for me to regret at the proper remorse level before heading home to deal with what I left behind.
I look up at the scattering of stars left in the sky and the line of light blue cutting into the darkness on the horizon. Time to get a move on for another day.
Dragging my reluctant body from beneath my blankets, I pat the thick jacket covering my arms to get my blood moving and slowly rise to my feet. Damn, it’s freezing and my limbs feel as rusty as an old lady’s cooch.
Easing my shoulders backward, I hear my bones crack, then I tilt my head to one side—more pops—then the other until I’ve gotten all the creaks out of me.
Pulling off my thick wool beanie, I run my fingers through my long blond hair, then the fuzzy beard hiding my chin and features.
There. Morning grooming done until I can find a public restroom to brush my teeth and drain the snake. I yank my hat back on and ease down on my knees in the dirt to roll up my bedding.
Fuck, we don’t have long to pack up and get out of here before the morning foot patrol starts closing in to kick us losers out of here. Why the hell do they always have to act like we do it to annoy them? No sane person would sleep outdoors in Seattle if they had somewhere better to go…
“EJ, is it time to get out of here already?”
EJ is the handle most peeps on the street know me by. It was a nickname my mom called me when she was happy with me, and when she wasn’t it was Eric James.
Though I’m confident it shouldn’t have worked this way, the version of my name I heard more was the endearment and not the angry mother kind of thing. I was pretty much a hellion from birth, and explaining why my mom didn’t spend her life shouting Eric James instead of EJ can’t be done if you don’t know my mom. But I’m sure it’s not because I’m loveable or anything.
EJ could also stand for Eric Jackass…which might have been what my mom was thinking all along. It’s nearly impossible to ever know what’s really going on inside my mom’s head. And the jackass part, yep, it fits me and would be so like Mom to think it and not say it while giving me one of her adorable little smiles.
I have a good mom, fantastic dad, great siblings; one thing I was forced to come to terms with during my ninety-day stint at that barebones rural Washington addicts’ recovery boot camp is that it isn’t my family that screwed me up. That was a relief because I really love them and miss them so much it fucking hurts sometimes.
“Hey, yes or no? Do I need to pack up?”
Startled from my wandering thoughts, I glance over my shoulder to find Hank staring at me. “It is if you don’t want another desk appearance ticket from the cops. Though with how cold it is, it might be worth causing a disturbance to get tossed into jail.”
Laughing, Hank turns on his side. “Don’t think I didn’t consider that last night. Cold as a witch’s tit and it’s fucking June. Remind me again why we’re sticking around in Washington. I thought the plan when we got out of rehab was to head south. Not that I don’t like Seattle. City has a nice vibe, but California has better weather…”
I continue neatly turning my bedding into a tight roll that I can tie to my hiking backpack. Hank’s a talker. Yap, yap, yap every morning. Same record. Same question. Why are we in Seattle?
Maybe I should tell him all the gory details of how much of a jerk the old Eric was at times to women. I’m not really sure why I haven’t. Except that Hank doesn’t seem to need an answer to any question he asks me to stay latched onto my side, and that part of the equation—why I’m in Seattle—is a complicated mess I’m not sure I want to or even can explain.
My reluctance to share this fascinating screwup from my amends list I composed in rehab is fucking unreal if you think about it. Hank’s done all that addict garbage we have to come to terms with each time we get sober. Sometimes when we can’t sleep we swap stories about the things we’ve done in that one-up sort of way.
Why the fuck do we do that? It’s not like it’s a contest a guy should want to win. But we do it. All recovering addicts do. Tell all their shit to anyone who’ll listen as if that’ll purge it from your conscience. But it doesn’t and it won’t. Not ever. But hell, Hank does it and so do I, ramble on about everything, except the reason I’m sticking around Seattle.
Perhaps if I told him the full story I could start moving on from it. I doubt there’d be any judgments from him if I tried to explain what I did seven years ago that made this city a stop on the global apology tour I’ve lived for nearly nine months.
He’s probably the only person in my life who’d get it without me explaining.
First, he’d listen and not interrupt or comment.
When I paused to let him know I was done, he’d laugh before nodding in understanding.
Then he’d shut down my confession by saying something trite like “yep, that’s the kind of shit we all do when we’re using, brother” and then change the subject fast so I’d know he was cool with what I told him.
But this piece of Eric shitty excuse for a human being I don’t want to be cool with. Not that easily. And especially not having seen her again.
It’s funny how girls you’ve screwed over age the way fine wine does. They get fuller of body, sweeter of smell, more vibrant, and leave a flavor in your mouth that makes you want more.
Yep, seven years has turned her from a sweet drink into a fine wine. The kind you want to sip and savor, not pound. Though, fuck it, I do want to pound her and have since I saw her again.
My balls tighten from the thought of her—or maybe the memory of fucking her, having her beneath me, her long legs wrapped around me, matching my thrusts into her—and it has nothing to do with the fact that it’s been over a year since I’ve gotten laid.
Feeling my briefs grow snug, I push her from my head as I continue to pack up. Noticing that Hank’s finally on the move, I shove my crap into my backpack and zip it closed.
“We doing a meeting today?”
I nod. “Yep, every day.”
He groans as he gathers his shit to get out of here. “You’re fucking worse on the streets than being in rehab. All that keep coming back, it works shit. Do you really think the meetings are going to change a thing? I’ve been to”—he pauses, tilting his head as though thinking really hard—“rehab four times. And
here I am back again working toward a one-year chip. Guys like us don’t stay clean.”
Guys like us? I wonder what he means by that. Losers or addicts? Probably both are true from Hank’s point of view and maybe he’s right but that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop working the program.
Not this time. No way.
I stand up and wait for Hank. “Don’t grumble. Can you think of another place to get free coffee and something to eat?” I joke.
“We’re not going to that Catholic church on the other side of town, are we?” he grouses. “There’s gotta be a meeting near here. I don’t know why we hike there every morning.”
“What else have we got to do?”
His brows furrow. “Hang out. Enjoy life. Not take an urban hike every day.”
“Hiking is good. Keeps us from thinking other things.”
“Which other things? Like somewhere warm? Sex? Or getting a fix?”
“All three. You done yet?”
“Yep, almost.”
It takes work but somehow he gets his sleeping gear into his tiny leather cross-body briefcase that I’m confident is the only thing he has from his former life before me. The sleeping bag he ties to the strap with a piece of dirty rope.
He looks around what was our camping spot as if to make sure we haven’t forgotten anything, but neither of us owns anything worth worrying about except my guitar.
I shrug into the straps of my backpack, flex my icy fingers, and grab my guitar case before I shove my free hand deep into my jacket pocket. Maneuvering through the thick line of bushes we camped behind to hide us from view, I head out on the walkway toward the street.
We’re five blocks from the park when my cell phone vibrates in my pocket. Yanking it free from my jeans, I halt mid-step to check the notification.
Mom: EJ, we all love and miss you. Call your brother, please. Hope you’re doing well today.
“Who the hell texts you every morning?” Hank asks, trying to catch a peek at my screen.
“Nothing exciting.” I slip my cell back into my pocket. “My mom. Like every day.”
