by Shandi Boyes
For every mile I travel in this town, I can recall at least a dozen memories. That is why I haven’t stepped foot in Rochdale since the day of Jorgie and Malcolm’s funeral. I knew the instant I came home the truth would crash into me. And it is. No matter how much I wish it was all a nightmare and that I’ll eventually wake up, that is never going to happen. Jorgie and Malcolm’s memories will forever live on, but they are never coming back.
It is only now do I realize I’ve spent the last five years living in denial. Don’t get me wrong, the truth has been staring me in the face the entire time, I just refused to accept it. It was easier to believe I was doing an extended stint in Iraq than face reality, so that’s what I did. The day following Jorgie and Malcolm’s funeral, I reenlisted in the military. It wasn’t that my grief was pushed aside too quickly—I’m still grieving to this day—I just had to do something to stop myself from absorbing the truth.
The morning of their funeral, I caught my reflection in the mirror. All I saw was a hollow, soulless man staring back at me. Since a heartless man fears nothing, reenlisting in the military felt like the obvious step. I had nothing to lose, so I had nothing to fear.
For the five weeks following their deaths, I was the ideal soldier. I was always first to volunteer to sweep the danger zones; I walked on point between command stations, and I crawled through more foxholes than I could count. It seemed even walking directly into the line of fire couldn’t hurt me. I was invincible.
Well, so I thought.
Six weeks after Jorgie’s passing, her brother and my best mate, Hugo, was reported missing. I only met Hugo his first week of college, but I’ve classed him as family from the moment we shook hands. He is the brother I never had, and even the biggest boulder can’t knock down two brothers standing shoulder to shoulder. Our unique bond saw me immediately heading to my superiors to request special leave. Since Hugo was not a blood relative, my request was denied. That was the first instance I regretted reenlisting in the military.
The second was two years later when Hugo was declared deceased in absentia of a body. Just like I knew something was wrong the day Jorgie was involved in an accident, fragments of Hugo’s death didn’t make sense. I knew in my gut that something wasn’t right with his mysterious disappearance.
Although I refused to step foot in Rochdale, I kept my ears to the ground the years following Hugo’s disappearance.
Four years later, with the ink on my discharge papers still wet, I set out to prove that my intuition was right. For months, I had nothing. Hugo was a ghost. It was only when access to Jorgie’s sealed court records were granted to an FBI agent did I discover my intuition was spot on. Hugo was alive and well, living in a town called Ravenshoe.
I wasn’t surprised when the reasoning behind Hugo’s disappearance was made apparent. Just like he’d done his entire life, he protected his baby sister when the courts failed to. For that, I’ll forever be in his debt. That is the sole reason I'm guzzling down overpriced whiskey in a town that equally haunts and appeases my grief.
When the bartender plunks an overflowing whiskey glass in front of me, excess liquor spills over the rim and soaks into the polished countertop. I jerk my chin up in thanks before lifting the glass to my mouth. Nothing comes close to easing the pain in my chest I’ve been living with the past five years, but the burn of expensive liquor warms the area where my heart used to belong. And for the quickest second, my numbness is achieved by something more than grief.
After throwing back the generous serving in one fell swoop, I request a refill. As the bartender replenishes my glass, I scan my eyes over the congregation of people mingling in the opulent surroundings. Just as they had done for mine and Jorgie’s wedding, Mr. and Mrs. Marshall have gone all out for Hugo and Ava. I’m not surprised. Although Ava doesn’t have a drop of Marshall blood running through her veins, from the stories Jorgie told me, she has been a Marshall longer than she was a Westcott. You only need to attend one Sunday brunch in the Marshall residence, and you’re classed as family. With Chase’s disdain for me, it may have taken me four months to get an invite to the Marshall brunch, but it’s a morning I’ll never forget. It was the day Jorgie and I officially became a couple.
A whizz of air parts my lips when I spot Hugo and Ava dancing in the middle of the crammed dance floor. I’ve felt every second of every day since Jorgie and Malcolm passed, but I still can’t believe nearly five years has flown by since Ava and Hugo danced together at my wedding. I recall in crystal clear detail Jorgie spending our entire bridal waltz orchestrating a way for Ava to catch her bouquet. She was so determined for Ava and Hugo to become a couple, she gave fate a stern push every chance she got.
What she didn’t calculate was that I’d be dragging a red-faced Hugo off a Rochdale High alum only minutes later. Marvin got what was coming to him. If Hugo didn’t deck him for the rumors he was circulating about Ava, I’m certain another Rochdale local would have called him out. Just like Jorgie, Ava grew up in Rochdale. She is loved by the community just as much as Jorgie was. Now, she holds the last name associated with the prestigious title. A rare smile cracks onto my lips. If Jorgie had it her way, I would have had the Marshall surname as well.
Grinning at the memory of Jorgie’s sermon on how husbands taking their wives’ surnames was all the rage, I stray my eyes back to the bar. On the way, I spot a flurry of blonde in the corner of my eye. The unnamed lady who coerced me into the church hours ago has her face hidden by a large outdated camera. Although she has spent the last hour taking snapshots of Hugo and Ava’s guests, she hasn’t spoken to a single attendee since she warily entered the ballroom.
When she peered up at me wide-eyed and slack-jawed after our collision, I would have never guessed she had a reserved personality. Don’t get me wrong, her fetching green eyes were clouded with mistrust and wariness, but their appeal was still strong enough to pull me out of the panicked state that was silently asphyxiating me. The blonde is no doubt attractive: big worldly eyes, a little button nose, and soft plump lips on an angelic face, but her entire composure demands solitude. If I hadn’t seen the other side of her demeanor in the church foyer—the helpful, kind-hearted one—I would have assumed she had a prickly personality. And from the way numerous men eye her with zeal from across the room, but fail to act on their impulses, her standoffish composure has the effect she is aiming for. Her attractive features gain their attention, but her unapproachable demeanor keeps them at arm’s length.
When the blonde cranks her neck in my direction, I drop my gaze to my glass of whiskey. I’ve noticed her glancing my way numerous times the past hour, but I’ve been avoiding her at all costs. It isn’t because I'm ungrateful for the assistance she offered me earlier. If I hadn’t run into her while fleeing haunted memories, I have no doubt I’d be halfway to Ravenshoe by now. But with my agitation already on edge from unavoidable memories, every sneaky glance she gives firms my annoyance.
Her interest doesn’t bother me. It is the fact that every time she locks her eyes with me, she stirs something deep inside me I haven’t felt in years. I’m not talking the normal rush of lust any hot-blooded male gets when confronted by a woman with attractive features and a tempting body. I’m talking the churning your stomach does when every assumption you’ve ever made is about to come undone.
I grit my teeth. Just having a thought like that pisses me off, even more so because of the location I'm sitting in. But even annoyed beyond comprehension, I know part of the reason why the unnamed blonde is causing such a fierce reaction out of me. It isn’t just lust or yearning. It is because she is the only person in the entire room not staring at me with sympathy. Ever since I walked into the church nearly three hours ago, I’ve had hundreds of eyes planted on me. Hers are the only pair that don’t remind me of what I’ve lost. For the entire forty-minute church service she gazed at me with wonderment and intrigue, two looks I haven’t seen in years.
Don’t take my confession the wrong way. I’m not saying I
’ve spent the last five years celibate. My needs are just as potent as any other man in this room tonight. But my sexual contact the past four years has only been in the form of meaningless sporadic one night stands. No connection. No commitments. Nothing but two consenting adults sharing an intimacy you can only achieve with a bed partner. It would be nice if I could experience that type of satisfaction without the need of a companion. But unfortunately, no matter how much you wish for something, not all your desires can be granted. Believe me, I’ve begged and pleaded for years. The one wish I’ve requested on repeat has never been fulfilled.
While I’m being forthright, I’ll admit, it isn’t just my reaction to the blonde’s inquisitive glances that has my agitation growing. Part of it resides from when she was glancing up at me in the church stairs with a look of admiration in her eyes. While returning her potent stare, for a fleeting moment, my recurring plea of the past five years stopped. Not because my greatest wish was finally granted. But because another wish passed through my mind, one I hadn’t thought of before. I wanted to be the man the blonde was staring at in awe. I wanted to feel whole again, even if it was only for the quickest moment.
For the first time in over five years, I didn’t want to be a broken man. I just wanted to be me.
Chapter 4
“Excuse me. Did you drive here?”
The still unnamed man stops walking toward a dark blue car that has just pulled to the curb and turns to face me. His suit jacket has been removed and slung over his forearm, and he is grasping a valet card firmly in his hand. With his head slanted to the side, he cocks his brow high into his hairline and glares into my eyes. I return his ardent stare while racking my fried brain about why he seems so familiar but still remains a mystery.
Hours have passed since our embarrassing meeting on the church stairs, yet I’m still no closer to finding out the identity of the dark-haired man with pulse-racing good looks and unapproachable demeanor. If I’d put my alcohol-fueled courage to the test, I could have asked one of the many wedding attendees gawking at him the past six hours. But for some silly reason, I didn’t want to find out his identity from anyone but him. I’d like to say my reasoning is solely based on the great intrigue every good book has, but that would be a lie. Mystery is great, but not when it has you obsessing over a stranger. My interest in unearthing his identity has seen me going from an intrigued onlooker to a Class A stalker felon in just shy of eight hours.
With his demeanor screaming “do not approach,” I spent the last six hours of Ava and Hugo’s wedding taking hundreds of pictures of the happy couple’s guests, drinking half a bottle of wine, and stealing numerous sneaky glances at the broodingly handsome man from afar. He spent the first hour of the reception sitting at the bar drinking whiskey like the distillery went up in flames. Then, shockingly, his choice of liquor switched to bottled water. He remained seated at the bar the entire time, not budging to eat, dance, or participate in the festivities, but he didn’t touch another drop of alcohol. I’m not going to lie, the self-control he exuded while surrounded by Hugo’s rowdy alcohol-fueled ex-frat brothers intrigues me even more than discovering his identity. Even the most upstanding members of society can turn into cruel and heartless men when influenced by those surrounding them. Not once tonight did the handsome stranger succumb to peer pressure.
My sweat-producing stare down with the dark-haired hottie comes to an end when a valet throws a set of keys at him, momentarily breaking our bizarre connection. I wait for the valet to move on to his next client before mumbling, “Would it be too much if I asked for a lift to my hotel?”
When the stranger’s brows scrunch together, I turn my gaze to Hugo and Ava making out like teenagers next to the white Rolls Royce prepared to whisk them to their honeymoon suite for the night. The cheerful smiles they’ve worn the past eight hours are still going strong. Not even a two-hour long grueling staged shoot with a photographer whose voice sounds like nails being dragged down a chalkboard could dampen their eagerness.
“Considering they are the only two people I know here, I could ask them, but that may be a little awkward.” I return my breathing to a respectable level before shifting my eyes back to the dark-haired stranger. “I also didn’t pack any sanitary wipes, so. . .” I screw my nose up, letting him choose the remainder of my sentence.
He tries to hold in his smile at my playful comment, but the corners of his lips tug high, exposing his deceit. He has a wonderful smile—even his dark eyes blaze with glee—but from the way the grooves on the edge of his plump lips face downwards, I’d say it is something he doesn’t do very often, which is a real shame, as he has the kind of smile that makes me weak at the knees.
“Please,” I shamefully beg when he maintains his quiet approach.
I’m not normally a begging type of girl, but with the rumors of an open bar ringing true, I soon discovered taxis are as rare as hen’s teeth in Rochdale at this time of night. Realizing I was never going to secure a paid service to take me to my hotel, I’ve spent the last hour building the courage to ask a stranger for a ride. Not a single request has been uttered from my lips until now. Don’t ask me why, but the brooding stranger is the first person I’ve felt comfortable approaching.
“It’s the least you can do after you nearly knocked me out,” I jest, hoping a dash of guilt may lessen my chance of hitchhiking the nearly fourteen miles to my hotel.
Although Hugo would pitch a fit if he discovered I even contemplated hitchhiking, I’d rather cop the wrath of his fury than be the third wheel at the commencement of his honeymoon. Being the tag-along friend is never fun, let alone when it is a newlywed couple.
Not appreciating my attempts at candor, the smile is wiped right off the stranger’s face and replaced with the scowl he’s worn the majority of the night. Before his faint grin at my attempt at humor, I only saw him smile once the past eight hours. It was an hour into the wedding reception. I’m not being devious when I say it was truly one of the most magnificent smiles I’ve ever seen.
“I hear the bar at the Grand Hotel has a great selection of liquor. If you can give me a ride, I’ll buy you your last drink of the night. If you’re lucky, I might even upgrade you from standard bottled water to sparkling.” I bite on the inside of my cheek to hide my cringe. My jokes are getting cornier the more desperate I get.
While holding his stern gaze, my pleading eyes shamefully expose my desperation. With the late hour, and the four hundred wedding guests dwindling to only a handful, I'm in full blown desperado mode.
Just when I think he is going to deny my request, he briefly nods his head. His gesture was so quick, if I hadn’t been stuck in the trance his captivating eyes put on me, I may have missed it.
Not speaking a word, he stalks to his flashy-looking car and curls into the driver’s seat.
“I’ll get my bag then, shall I?” I mumble to myself.
Blowing a wayward hair out of my face, I drag my suitcase toward the dark blue car with thick white stripes down the front. Although I’ve been known to have girly moments, that doesn’t extend to my knowledge of cars. My dad has been a classic car lover for centuries. His admiration for beefy muscle cars was passed down to me before I was even enrolled in kindergarten, meaning I have no trouble recognizing a fully restored 1969 Chevrolet Camaro Z-28 SS Coupe. She is a real beauty, nearly as enticing as the man sitting behind her steering wheel—if he’d stop scowling at me.
Grumbling under my breath at his sour demeanor, I swing open the passenger door, throw forward the seat, and jam my suitcase into the backseat of his car. Surprisingly, he doesn’t cite a single objection to me manhandling his pride and joy. If I know anything about gearheads, it’s that they hate when people manhandle their babies. Clearly, any presumptions I’ve made about this man the past eight hours are completely off-base. I don’t know this man at all. He truly is a stranger.
After taking a calming breath to soothe my jittering stomach, I slide into the front passenger seat and fasten m
y seatbelt. My hands are clammy with nerves and my eyes are wide, but thankfully, my outward appearance doesn’t give away the crazy thump of my heart.
“Nice ride—” I attempt to mumble. My words are rammed into the back of my throat when he slams his foot on the gas pedal and we fishtail out of the hotel driveway.
Adrenaline surges through my veins when he weaves his car in and out of the small amount of traffic surrounding us, like a race car driver striving for a podium finish. Taillights whizz past me in a stream of vibrant red lights as his speedometer goes well over the designated speed limit. Even with my gaze planted straight ahead, I can’t help but notice the way the cut muscles in his arms flex with every shift of the gears. He drives with controlled precision, like a man who intimately knows every dip and groove in the roads of Rochdale. His extensive knowledge makes me wonder if he is a born and bred Rochdale man like Hugo, or an adopted Marshall family member like nearly half the town is.
His grip on the steering wheel tightens as his speed increases even more. If he is trying to scare me, he is miserably failing. There is nothing more intoxicating than the purr of a five hundred horsepower engine showcasing its power. Classic cars like this were created to be driven, not gather dust in a collector’s garage. Add the intoxicating smell of sweat-slicked skin to the hair-bristling energy bouncing between the mystery stranger and me, and you have a captivating combination that sets my pulse racing.
Just like every time I flew around the track in the passenger seat of my daddy’s car, the tension weighing down my shoulders lifts, and a rush of excitement blazes through my body. Even though the stranger’s boorish demeanor hasn’t lightened, the glimmer of life in his eyes brightens with every quarter of a mile we travel. Exhilaration roars through my body, and my heart rate reaches levels it hasn’t achieved in years when the potent smell of burning gasoline streams into my nose.
