by Harlow Cole
STEALING HOME
HARLOW COLE
CONTENTS
Dedication
Introduction — Cast Adrift
Stealing Home
Prologue—Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust
1. Busted Down & Broken
2. Rotted Pieces
3. Confessional
4. Painted Hope
5. Savages
6. Strings Attached
7. Spilled Dignity
8. Tractor Beam
9. Breaking Point
10. Checkmate
11. Hand Out
12. Hercules
13. Forbidden
14. Angels & Taillights
15. Plan B
16. Cat & Mouse
17. Dominoes
18. Stinging
19. Bullets & Blood
20. Shoved
21. Lasso the Moon
22. Jaywalking
23. Vip
24. Stay. Stay. Stay
25. Pavement
26. Cracked
27. White Knights & Lies
28. Moon & Stars
29. Storm Chasers
30. Wanderlust
31. Butterfly
All Signs Point Home
I Know
About the Author
Copyright © 2019 by Harlow Cole
Visit my website at: www.harlowcole.com
Cover Designer: Jersey Girl Design,
www.jerseygirl-design.com
Editor: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforseenediting.com
Marla Esposito, Proofing Style,
www.proofingstyle.com
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
To A&R—
For helping me believe,
and reminding me to wander.
Never forget your way home.
Introduction — Cast Adrift
Brayden
Ninety feet lie between the bases in every Major League park. When merged with home plate, they create a perfectly symmetrical diamond, transforming dirt and grass into a crown jewel. On game days, the distance is expertly measured within fractions of an inch. It’s lined with stark white chalk, so the pathway stays clear.
For me, the distance home felt twice as far.
I’d been trying to reach it for years.
I kept pressing forward, one foot in front of the other, focused solely on preparing to slide into the plate beneath the tag. As best I could, I blocked out the noise of the crowd and the blinding artificial light. If I lost sight of my target, I held the panic at bay by looking up at the stars.
The real ones.
Not the men surrounding me with their names stamped on the backs of their jerseys.
The stars had long given me comfort. When I was fifteen, Mr. Foster took us for a night sail. We cruised out past the lights from town. Past the point where land darkened the safe edges of earth. Way out there, lost inside a deep black nothing, we lay on the deck and stared skyward. I listened, as he spoke about other men who, centuries before us, sailed out into the ocean and lost their way home.
The stars became their guide.
Trusting in their power, those sailors wove magical tales of celestial beings. They followed their path, even when they couldn’t clearly see their destination. In the darkness, those tiny points of light brought them safely back to port.
Back where they belonged.
I am a ghost ship now. Abandoned at sea. Left to pray the stars will lead me home.
* * *
Ashley
The nickname Brayden gave me, when I was still a little girl, played on my name. Ash. Soot. The little burning embers.
What’s left behind.
I could still trace life back to all the special moments when a spark lit inside me. My mind stored those memories as torn snapshots. I tried not to pull them out very often. They remained tucked between pages I never turned. The faces those images captured were young and naïve, unscorched by the pain of loss and loneliness.
That’s the problem with flying high without fear attached; you never see the collision coming before the crash and burn.
After he left, I awoke to my own destruction, reflected in the rearview mirror by the sting of hindsight.
I could still wear a smile. It just formed beneath cracked lines, invisible to the naked eye. They weren’t put there by age; they’d been cemented by life experience.
First love is unconstrained. It doesn’t fear the rush of heartbreak or know what it’s like to watch a fire flame out.
Once you witness that tragedy, in slow motion, paralyzed to do anything to stop it, you lose that untethered feeling. Your happiness knows its own bounds. You live cautiously, aware that, at any moment, life could deal a different set of cards with another losing hand.
The only thing good about surviving the free fall? Once you hit rock bottom, there’s nowhere to go but up.
I loved.
I lost.
Then, I lost some more.
Surely, the new hand I now held had to scrape bottom. How could there possibly be any more room to fall?
I am the ashes left behind to smolder and wonder if I’ll ever get another spark.
Stealing Home
“Stealing home is one of the most sensational plays in baseball . . . It is a play that requires a lot of quick thinking . . . The chap who has slow-moving feet and a slower-moving brain had better never try to . . .”
—Billy Evans
Baseball Hall of Fame, Class of 1973
Youngest Major League umpire
Prologue—Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust
“You’ll know when the time is right.”
Her voice didn’t waver. I envied her sense of certainty.
“How will I know? How can you be so sure?”
Doubt clouded everything for me—from the edge in my voice to the far corners of my brain. It always had. I’d never been able to escape it. But there she was, telling me someday I’d find clarity. Telling me my fear would eventually turn to resolve.
I clung to her words and to the belief that as she lay there, lingering so close to being joined with some higher power, she had a direct line to divine premonition.
I had a plan. Scratched out on a sheet of lined paper.
I just didn’t have a motherfucking clue how to make it all work.
“You will.” Her hand grasped mine too loosely.
I already missed its familiar strength. I yearned to feel its warmth stroking over my back again.
“I promise, you will.”
“I wish I had your faith.” I exhaled a shaky breath, determined to hold it together in front of her. I’d come to give strength, not to suck the last shreds out of her.
“Listen to what I told you. You have to start at the beginning before you’ll ever know how the story ends.”
“I’ll try.”
Her eyes squeezed shut. Pain creased the edges of cheekbones that had grown too hollow, too fast. My heart stuttered. I hated every single part of this. This damn room. The smell alone made those invisible hands put a vise grip around my chest. I fought them back, forcing my mind to break their hold.
I wouldn’t let them win today.
We both fell silent, listening to a nurse push a cart down the hall outside her door. An e
rrant wheel squeaked with every turn. It quickly faded away.
Like everything else in this place.
“They’ll be coming soon,” she whispered. “It’s almost time to say goodbye.”
“I don’t want to leave you. I wish there were more I could do. I wish I could make this all different.”
“I know. But this was in the plan, too. This is part of it. We don’t get to decide. It’s okay. I’m at peace with it.” She lifted my hand and pressed her cheek against it. Her skin felt like wrinkled paper. “Thank you for coming. You have no idea what it means to me to see you with my own eyes. I have my happy ending now.”
I nodded my head. I couldn’t speak. I didn’t want to relive this scene again. The back of my throat filled up with too much sadness. It thickened past anything I could hope to swallow down. Ripe pain. I should’ve been an expert at dealing with it by now. I should’ve been skilled at playing out my role in this endless nightmare.
Bubbles formed in my lungs, holding back the screams I desperately wanted to shout at the dark. I’d been waiting far too long for a dawn that would never come.
“Go out and find your happy ending. Don’t give up until you get it.”
“I love you. I should have said that before now.”
“I love you, too. I always have. You are loved. Let yourself feel it.”
“I’ll try. I promise.”
“I need you to make me one more promise. It’s a favor. Something I hope you’ll do for me.”
“I’d do absolutely anything. What do you need?”
“For my part, I know nothing with any certainty,
but the sight of the stars makes me dream.”
—Vincent van Gogh
1
Busted Down & Broken
Ashley
“Why don’t we stop at Lucky’s and get some lunch? I’m starving.”
Okay, so I lied.
The pit in the bottom of my stomach didn’t yearn for cheese fries and a mushroom burger with special sauce. It begged me to inhale half the bottle of antacids I had hidden under my seat.
I would never admit that to him though.
For Nathan, I adopted this whole fake persona. When he entered a room, plasta-girl emerged. She wore a painted-on smile and spoke one octave higher than normal.
My brother didn’t deserve my turmoil.
“Don’t be funny,” he replied plainly. “It’s annoying.”
I stole glances at his profile as I reluctantly turned the truck toward home. His dirty-blond hair hung limp, pulled into a greasy ponytail that made my skin itch. Joey needed to cut it.
I stopped short of suggesting that.
More fertile battlegrounds awaited our next war.
“I was thinking we should schedule an appointment with Darcy next week. I don’t think it’s a good idea to keep skipping sessions with her. You were making good progress, and Dr. Zeleski just said—”
“Stop, Ash. Just stop.” He turned to glare at me. His jaw clenched as he immediately pressed the heel of both palms to his forehead.
Anger spawned migraines. All those weird electrical connections that still misfired inside him. I should’ve waited to bring it up. Or I should’ve just scheduled the damn therapy appointment and dragged his ass there.
He’d never go back willingly.
“I know what you’re trying to do. Knock it the fuck off. You and I both know we cannot afford to—”
“Nathan, let me be the one to worry about that. You don’t need to think about all that stuff. I’ve got it covered.”
“I’m so not in the mood for your bullshit and lies today.” He groaned again and shut his eyes, resting his head against the passenger window.
The side of a closed fist thumped against his left knee. He did that a lot. Any excuse to beat himself up a little more.
His legs were almost misshapen now. Weak and spindly where once there had been great strength. I tried to avoid looking directly at them.
“You have enough things to worry about,” he muttered.
“Nothing is more important than—”
“I know about the deadline.”
My mouth snapped shut to his declaration.
“I saw the notice in the mail last week. Stop worrying about me. There are other things that need and want your attention. Other things that are even more broken than me right now,” he added below his breath. “Focus on saving the business and try to stay the fuck out of mine for a change. I’m fine the way I am.”
Fine. My least favorite four-letter word.
Nothing about it applied to our situation.
I wanted to yell and scream. To vent some of the frustration boiling beneath my plastic veneer. But what the hell would I say?
You don’t look fine.
You’re not even trying.
You’ll never get better like this.
He dug in his sweatshirt pocket for his earbuds and phone, plugging himself in to cut off our conversation.
Those stupid freaking letters. The bank kept sending them. As if I’d suddenly forgotten the jumble of angry numbers printed inside. They could’ve saved themselves the postage.
I hated that he’d seen them.
Hated that my brother knew I had failed him once again.
I pulled the truck as far up to the garage as possible, shortening his path. This part still bugged him. The strangled dignity of having to wait for my help. I moved as fast as I could, dragging open the tailgate to extract the heavy chair, rolling it up next to the passenger side.
“I got it. I got it,” he mumbled irritably as I wedged my body between the chair and the door, giving him something to grab on to. The bulky muscles in his shoulders strained, compensating for the weakness he suffered everywhere else. He lowered himself down to his rolling prison.
I started to push. Forgetting myself.
“Stop,” he said, snapping at me, as his hands turned the spokes, sharply pulling back. “I’m good. I don’t need you to mother me.”
He always knew just the words to cut me.
By the time I’d shut the side door, he was already halfway up the wooden ramp to the converted garage apartment. I knew better than to ask if he wanted help getting inside.
“I have to go over to the marina for a little bit. How about I bring some pizza home for dinner?”
“Whatever.”
In the place of optimism, I’d settle for apathy.
Thank God for small victories.
* * *
I made it a mile and a half.
That’s when the thunder rolled in as pregnant clouds started their daily dance across the bay. I used to love watching a storm blow over the water. Back in the lazy days when I could sit and enjoy their dark power. My mind used to soak up their energy.
Now, I mentally calculated lost revenue.
The rumbling earth and violent strokes of light served as one more reminder of just how little I could control. Adulthood sucked the joy from so many things.
I turned on the radio to give my pity party a soundtrack and to drown out the scrape of the windshield wipers. Angry Adele accompanied my mood. I dived right in, singing full steam, as my hand smacked against the cracked blue steering wheel like a drum.
The old girl couldn’t take the beating. As I hit the high note in the chorus, the whole truck lurched once and then suddenly lost power.
“No. Not today,” I groaned. “Come on.”
I pumped the gas pedal a half-dozen times, trying to will the thing back to life, as I coasted to the gravel shoulder on the side of the road.
“Seriously?” I looked up and pounded my open palm against the roof. “Why can’t you cut me just a little bit of slack? Do guardian angels take holidays? You’re supposed to be watching out for me.”
I slumped forward, resting my forearms and brow against the oversized steering wheel, locked inside disbelief of the shittiest luck possible. I’d become one of those blow-up punching dolls with the sand in the bottom. The kind fists
keep pummeling ’cause the stupid thing never has the sense to stay down.
Begrudgingly, I popped the hood release and hopped down out of the cab. I had no clue how to diagnose the problem, but broken-down suckers on the roadside always pretend to look at the engine.
I played along.
Stepping up onto the rusted front bumper, I stared at the pile of dirty metal while daydreaming about tossing a match inside and walking away. At least bending over under the hood shielded part of me from the rain.
The sound of tires crunching through the gravel behind the truck brought a sigh of sweet relief. I looked back up at the heavens and felt bad for not trusting my angel to send help. Jumping down from my perch on the bumper, I brushed my hands down the front of my khaki shorts as I rounded the front of the cab to call out to my hero.
Cruel disbelief blossomed in the back of my throat.
“You’ve got to be shitting me. This is not happening.”
He’s still in town?
It had been almost a week. A week of trying to make myself believe our run-in at Foxy’s was just another bad dream. Six freaking days of convincing myself life couldn’t possibly be that cruel.
I’d avoided the town gossip machine buzzing furiously about his sudden return. But no one else would drive that car. It looked like money on wheels. The black paint and sleek lines made my truck’s chipped blue exterior and scratched marina logo look even more pathetic.
Some folks in St. Michaels had seen a Maserati.
Nobody in town drove one.
Certainly not one with New York plates.
I lifted my face to the rain, letting it wash away my urge to cry, as the driver’s side door popped open, and my worst day of the week took a turn for my worst day ever.
“Really?” I grumbled, shooting a snarky eyeroll toward the angry sky. “This is who you sent?”
He was dressed casually in a pair of shiny black athletic shorts and a plain gray sweatshirt, slightly frayed across the bottom hem by time and fondness. The hood bunched up around his neck, framing the sharp jawline that sported thick, dark scruff.
Brayden Ross turned gym-rat attire into the costume of a sex god.
