by Anthology
“Fantastic,” Chase panted.
“Fucking fantastic for me,” she gasped as he moved slowly out and then back in as he got comfortable.
“That was the best damn birthday present ever,” he said, and then added, “Happy birthday, Leigh.”
Peeking at the clock on the nightstand, she giggled when she noticed the time – 11:03. “Thank you. Happy birthday to you too, Chase.”
Over the next few days, they only stopped having sex long enough to get food, and finally ventured out into the town when Chase had to meet with Peter. They had developed a strong connection that neither of them had ever felt before with anyone else, and only in a matter of days. Insta-love is what Leigh called it, and Chase happily agreed.
Leigh was enamored as she watched Chase work with the developmentally disabled kids and the horses at the rodeo – it was a side of him that had her falling head over heels pretty fast. Chase, in turn, was pleased to watch Leigh in action as she helped a few of the kids when muscle spasms threatened to end their fun. She was a caring and passionate woman who rocked his world. That’s when inviting her to move her practice to Blossom Grove, and work with a good number of his clients, hit him. He offered, she said yes. They had lots more sex to celebrate.
Chapter 10
“So you’re totally serious about moving to Blossom Grove?” Chase asked as they walked out of Leigh’s SW Park Avenue complex the day before he was supposed to fly home. He had already extended his stay a week, but he had clients counting on him and Chase knew it was time to head home. Too bad because the city of Portland was beginning to grow on him.
“Yup. I just need to find someone to sublet my apartment, you know, just in case we don’t…” she trailed off instead of finishing with work out.
“I’m not worried about that, Leigh. I’ll keep chasing you where ever you go,” he said pulling her back to him so he could give her a quick kiss. “Okay, this is either going to sound really awesome, or really creepy, but I just might have someone in Blossom Grove who would be willing to move here to Portland.”
“You don’t say?” she asked, smiling as she arched one brow.
“My sister-in-law, Bree, has a sister-in-law who was in a pretty shitty marriage. Apparently Mary’s ex was really violent with her, and he beat her so badly that she lost their baby. That’s what made her finally leave him.”
“Oh my God, that poor woman.”
“That made Mary damn cautious about getting involved with Bree’s brother, Justin, a few years later,” Chase explained.
“Well, duuuuh.”
“But they were more alike than she realized, and eventually she fell pretty hard. I know how that goes,” he said with a wink that made Leigh’s heart do that funny flutter. “Then they went through some pretty heavy shit to close that chapter in Mary’s life, though.”
Leigh sucked in a breath. “That must have been absolutely awful for them.”
“It was, but it also gave them a purpose. A domestic violence victim crashed their wedding looking for the priest that had married them, and something clicked. Bree told me that between what that woman had gone through, and what Mary had to endure, the couple decided to start helping domestic violence victims on the DL. They quietly began buying and renovating homes near Blossom Grove to serve as emergency safe houses for women who couldn’t immediately get into a domestic violence shelter.”
“But what does all this have to do with my apartment here?” Leigh asked.
“I guess they need to get a woman the hell out of California. She has no kids, and no ties…kind of like you. But that’s only because her husband murdered her parents to get back at her for leaving him.”
“Holy shit!” Leigh cried.
“Holy shit is right. He’s facing twenty-five to life, but he’s got his friends on the outside doing his dirty work, and they’ve made this poor woman’s life a further living hell. Until she met Justin and Mary, she lived out of her car, so she could keep moving around. Now she just wants to disappear and start a new life somewhere else. Justin just sent me a text this morning, asking me to scope out any possibilities here for her. It’s the perfect solution, Leigh. Your complex has controlled access, and the retailer she works for is willing to transfer her out of state. There’s even one located not far from here. It solves both of your problems.”
“It certainly sounds like it,” Leigh said excitedly. “This might actually work.”
“And to tie it all up with a nice, neat bow, there’s a domestic violence group here Justin and Mary know about. Allie can attend their support group, and get the help she needs to get back on her feet.”
“Wow, this is just all too surreal, Chase,” Leigh looked a bit overwhelmed.
“But, I don’t want to force you, okay? I’d be more than willing to fly here as often as I can. Hell, I filled in enough for Gavin while he tried to snag Bree. He owes me,” Chase explained. “Big time.”
“Yeah, but all too soon I’ll have nothing to hold me here. Granted, I love Portland, but those who are important to me don’t live here.”
“Your parents?” Chase sighed, feeling slightly let down.
“Actually, it’s pretty much just you.” Chase’s eyes lit up even more when Leigh added, “I don’t want a long distance relationship. I want you, chasing me around all day long.”
“Leigh, I would be more than happy to chase you all day long…for the rest of our lives even.”
“Chase, are you?…” she stopped, unsure if she should ask it.
“Not yet, but soon, just so you know. And hey, I think Portland would be a great place to start our honeymoon, don’t you think?”
“Yes, Chase, actually I do,” Leigh agreed.
The End
About the Author
R.J. Van Cleave grew up in a small town near San Diego, CA, where she still lives today. She loved science as a child and had planned on becoming a doctor. However, she realized she wanted to be a mother more, and switched to working in the Biotech industry. One daughter was eventually joined by fraternal twin sisters (a surprise), and R.J.’s life was complete. In 2011, her mom died from undiagnosed cancer and R.J.’s world was turned upside down. In an attempt to honor her mother’s life, R.J. got a few tattoos and schlepped through a few half marathons. Needles and strenuous exercise were two real fears for R.J., but her greatest fear was actually putting a story in her head down on paper. In June of 2013, R.J. finally conquered that fear when she sat down and wrote Demons, which she self-published on February 14, 2014. The MacLane Family series was born and R.J.’s career as a writer was too.
Website: http://www.rjvancleave.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/RJVanCleave
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8194374.R_J_Van_Cleave
Twitter: https://twitter.com/rjvancleave
Instagram: http://instagram.com/rjvancleave
Google+: https://plus.google.com/u/0/111234540192051956253/posts/p/pub
E-Mail: [email protected]
Demons: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00IGAG9CY
Damages: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00R75RMI4
Deceptions: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B014MUC4VQ
The Ephemeral – Sarah M. Cradit
Autumn's past and future collide in an unexpected way when mysterious Gabriel appears.
One – Autumn
The flood of sensations following a car accident could serve well as a metaphor for my life in general.
There exists nothing, that I’m aware of, as shrill and blinding at once as crunching metal the moment your car plows into the end of something it wasn’t meant to hit. If you’ve been in an accident, though, you know. We’re all part of a secret club, of sorts, those who have done something awful in a moment of weakness but have no power to take it back.
There are plenty of other elements at work: the fear, the panic, the oh hell moment when you play out how the next few minutes will go, never mind the next few months as you deal with hospita
l bills, repairs, claims, and inevitable insurance hikes. A chronic over-thinker like me will go through all these things a hundred times over. I will assess and re-assess the seconds leading up to the accident as if I could change the past with enough harnessed brain power.
But none of that matters in the moments after the sound dies down and it’s only you mustering the courage and fortitude to get out of the car and deal with the person whose day you just ruined.
The defining moment. The crash. The aftermath.
Yes. My life.
This wasn’t my first accident. I’d been in one just days after getting my driver’s license, not the best timing if you’re living under your mother’s roof and driving her brand new Mercedes. Also not awesome if the person you smash into is having a terrible day to begin with and you’ve now gifted them with an outlet for their frustration.
That one was my fault. So was the accident a year later, when I hit a patch of ice and slammed my mom’s car (not the same one as before; she had to replace that one, thanks to my skilled driving, and would replace the replacement soon thereafter) into a tree. I was okay. The car was not. No screaming businessman flailing his umbrella at me that time, though.
Now here I was, several years removed from both accidents and miles from the protection of home, and I had hit a man riding his bicycle.
Yes, a bicycle.
My knee-jerk defense was that he’d materialized from thin air. He certainly hadn’t been there when I started the turn, right?
Of course, he had to be. My negligence had no valid excuse.
Around me, downtown traffic continued, cars and cyclists whizzing by, continuing on their routes. Not a one stopped to help. Even more bizarre, no rubberneckers to be spotted.
With a tentative draw of breath, I slid one leg out of the car and then the other. Ahead of me, squatting on the curb, was a man. He held one hand over his eyes as he observed the hunk of metal that used to be his bike.
Would he take my head off like the man five years ago? I’d deserve it. I was distracted, thinking about finals, only blocks from my apartment in the Pearl District. Never mind that he seemed to come out of nowhere; the insurance adjuster had heard that one a thousand times.
Some people say most accidents happen close to home. So far, I’m three for three on this one.
More important than all of it: Was he okay?
The rest happened as if flipping through scenes on a slide viewer. He was kneeling and then he was rushing over, his body language somewhere between massive annoyance and full-on rage. Next he was in front of me, tucking a card into his front pocket as if protecting it from the same lowlife who’d nearly taken his life. An insurance card? Do cyclists carry insurance?
“Are you all right?” I started to ask but was cut off.
“So, what happened?” the man demanded. A lack of pleasantries off the bat wasn’t a good sign.
“I… uh… I’m not sure, honestly. It was totally my fault, th—”
“No kidding. Not paying attention?” My natural instinct was to penetrate his thoughts and read them, a skill I’d had since before I possessed memories. In rare cases, the subject of this unknown assault couldn’t be breached. Unfortunately, this was one such case, so I had to rely on my everyday instincts.
Right away, I assessed he wasn’t interested in my answer. His questions were designed to humiliate me or add shame to the list of problems that would mount once I called my own agent.
He was a bully. Great.
“I’m sorry,” I said, coming around the answer with one more relevant to the situation. “This was my fault, and you won’t get any trouble from me.”
He didn’t wait for me to offer my insurance card. Instead, he snatched it from my hand.
“You’re not from here.”
“Sorry?”
“Your insurance says you live in New Orleans, Louisiana.”
“Oh. Yeah, I’m a college student at PSU. They don’t make college kids change their residency, and anyway, I’ll be going home after I graduate in the spring.” I didn’t owe him an explanation. It wasn’t on the list of items on the wallet card titled “Oh No! You’ve Been in an Accident! Now What?” that my mother made me carry after accident number two.
Then again, rambling was a secondary strength of mine, behind wrecking things.
“Portland State is a strange choice of school for someone who comes from a state with some of the best colleges in the nation. If you wanted to come to Oregon, why not Oregon State or U of O?”
“They offered me a full scholarship.”
“For what?”
The drilling line of questions meant he was okay, at least. I sighed. “Basketball.”
He lifted one of his brows in response, an action bloated with far more suspicion and judgment than any of his words thus far. I didn’t like the unspoken dialog behind his eyes. I almost preferred the screaming businessman because he left nothing to interpretation.
Yet there was something else about this man. Something I couldn’t put my finger on. The thought rested in the back of my mind. Waiting.
I pointed toward my Camry. “I have a pen in my center console so we can copy down each other’s information. I’ll call my agent right away and let them know it’s my fault.” I wouldn’t need the pen for myself. One of the benefits of having a photographic memory.
Which was rare, yes, but also the least of the bizarre gifts I was born with.
The last words hadn’t left my tongue before he had his phone out, taking pictures. First of my insurance card, but then he made his way around my car and his bike, clicking away, scrutinizing. Following that, he circled to the other side, phone still in front of him. “What’s your address?”
“My address? Why?”
“I’m going to send you the pictures I took of the damage, so you can’t accuse me later of making anything up.”
I made no attempt to stop the rise of heat in my face. “I already apologized and told you it was my fault.”
He squared his stance. “And we both know it’s far easier to deceive someone when they’re not standing in front of your face. This isn’t your first accident, is it, Autumn?”
Before I could stop myself, I reached over and snatched whatever he’d shoved in his pocket. Squinting, I read his info from his ID card, memorizing it before he could take it back. “Look, Gabriel, if it would make you feel better, we can call the cops and let them make a report, but I’m not interested in standing around downtown in the rain arguing over something senseless. I said it was my fault. I’m not going to make this any more difficult than it needs to be.”
Gabriel ripped the plastic from my hands. He shoved it into his front jeans pocket, likely assuming I wouldn’t be so quick to venture there. “We don’t need to involve the police,” he answered quietly. “Are you going to give me your address or not?”
“Or not.”
He rolled his eyes. “Fine, Autumn. Have it your way. This is where I should tell you my family is in law enforcement.”
I met his gaze. “Oh? Is that a threat? This is where I should tell you my mother is a lawyer.”
Gabriel laughed. “And that means either one or both of us is lying.”
“If you lived in New Orleans, you’d know the name Sullivan without me having to explain another word.”
“This isn’t New Orleans. And all I’m saying is, I’m not going to take any funny business from you. I don’t care if your mom is a lawyer or the President of the United States. I want my bike fixed, and I don’t want to deal with some vapid college girl who was more than likely texting her boyfriend. I didn’t need this, and I sure as hell didn’t ask for it.”
You don’t know a damned thing about me, you arrogant ass, I wanted to say. Had it loaded and ready to go.
Instead, I affected a slow and deliberate salute and then marched back to my car without another word.
In hindsight, it was a ridiculous, even childish response.
But how was I to
know he would be in the passenger seat of my car two minutes later?
Two – Gabriel
This wasn’t at all how I imagined our first meeting would go.
Eons ago, when I was new at this, I would create and evaluate an entire plan before engaging my assigned Ephemeral. In those days, I even enjoyed my duties. To observe my intervention having a positive effect on others was all the reward I required.
Time had a way of changing situations.
If I’d wanted to teach her a harsher lesson, I’d have allowed my accident to appear worse. I let her off easy. She had to be wondering where my rudeness had come from, alongside my justification at employing it in her direction. Hell, I wondered the same thing myself. Something about her crawled under my skin and nagged at all my worst tendencies, and she looked at me as if guessing that very thing.
I would know for sure if I could read her mind. But, for the first time in more than a thousand human years, I’d come across a charge whose mind was entirely blocked to me.
The lesson was designed to end with the accident. One of many chance encounters we could employ for our Ephemerals, and it was often the easiest in terms of forcing interaction. I would then observe her for changes in behavior. In the absence of any, I would return for another observation, and do so until I could assess whether she was destined. This was our way. It always had been.
Her blocked mind didn’t just confuse me; it drew me in. I had to know. She was so unlike any of the others, but I didn’t understand why.
