by F. X. Scully
Directly across from the sofa is a large bed. I'm pretty sure it's king-sized because it reminds me of one from a hotel room. It's neatly made with a mound of pillows in the corner, right underneath a window. There are stacked bookshelves on either wall, a television at the foot of the bed and an honest-to-god vanity with a mirror so big, I'm a little bit jealous. It's completely unexpected.
Shannon would laugh so hard if she...
I sigh, trying my best to hold onto the memory of what it sounded like. High pitched, but soft. And totally infectious.
I turn to face him. "Do you think he'll be all right?"
Ross twists the tips of my hair around his fingers, "Luke's strong. Always has been. It's gonna be tough, no doubt, but..." He sighs and shrugs one shoulder. "Yeah, he'll be all right."
I drain my drink and pass him my cup in a silent plea for more. After he tops it up he pours one for himself and rests the bottle on the floor by the sofa.
"Damn, Carlson." He rubs his eyes and stares at the floor. "Are you gonna be all right?"
I could break down right now trying to answer that question. Because it's not so simple. When my grandfather died, I was sad. I cried. I missed him. I couldn't stop thinking about him. I saw him in everything I did. But the truth was, other than the Sunday evening games of Crazy Eights, I really didn't like my grandfather. He was mean, strict and judgmental. He was kind of a bigot, more of a fundamentalist than my parents and, if you didn't agree with his views, time spent in his presence was probably worse than being judged by god himself. But I still missed him when he was gone. I still shed a few tears. Years later, when something would happen, I'd be somewhere or someone would say something that reminded me of him, I would still tear up.
But Grandpa was no Shannon. He wasn't my best friend. He didn't understand me like no one else. He didn't bend over backwards to protect me. Or do anything in his power to make sure I enjoyed my life. No one is Shannon. So, no, I won't be all right. Probably not ever again.
I could break down right now, only I can't. Because every tear I'll ever have I've probably shed on the floor of that hospital. I'm dried up. And even after all of that, I don't feel any better.
"No," I say and tip my cup back emptying it again. I reach for the bottle myself this time, refilling my cup all the way.
After I've downed more than half of it, and my head is floating, my senses duller than they already were, I turn to Roscoe and place a hand on his cheek.
"But I know what can make me feel better."
He leans back a little, his gaze dropping to my lips as I lick the rum off them. "What's that?"
I smile, at least I think I do, I can barely feel my face now. Then I lean closer to him as he leans further back. "Stop it," I laugh. "Where're you going?"
"Jailbait," he says in a low voice, not nearly as convincing as I'm sure he intends. "You're fucking jailbait, Carlson."
"I'm nineteen. You're almost twenty-seven. Nothing illegal about that."
"You're a teenager." His gaze holds mine and I can see every bit of resolve melting away.
"Now you and I both know that's a technicality." I place my cup on the floor and rise up on my knees.
Roscoe lets out a shuddering breath and I lean forward again, brushing my lips across his neck. His chin. Then finally his lips.
He doesn't back away this time. I can't tell if he's run out of room or just plain given up and given in. I swing one leg over his lap and he tenses up, but as I ease myself down, I feel every muscle in his body relax. Except for one.
"This is a bad idea," he says quietly. "We shouldn't do this. Not now."
"When then?" I press my forehead to his. "You can't tell me you haven't been thinking about this. What exactly are you waiting for?"
His lips press against mine. Lightly at first and even though I know he's right—we shouldn't, not now, not here—I let him take me to a place in my mind where everything is okay again. The feeling of his skin on mine, somehow makes everything else a faint memory. Roscoe pulls my shirt over my head and I'm limp in his arms as he carries me to his bed. I try hard not to think about all the other women who have been there, and the moment we hit the mattress, I no longer care. I need this. I need him. Right now.
I open my eyes and all I want to do is close them again. Go back to the dream I don't even remember. Somewhere where this world isn't real. The pain in my chest hasn't gone away and the rest of my body is still numb.
"This isn't real," I whisper.
But it is. And it hurts so bad.
Roscoe's arms are wrapped tightly around me and it takes more than a little effort to free myself. For a long moment, I sit there staring down at him. I've never seen him like this, only imagined it. Other than the occasional dip in the pool and ritual strip-down on stage, he's usually fully clothed. And I've always been too self-conscious to stare too long. This is the perfect opportunity.
Not that I didn't know before, but his body is covered in tattoos—from his collarbone all the way down to the V where his abs stop and his package begins. The sheet is only covering his groin and even his thighs have a sprinkling of ink here and there. He murmurs something, but doesn't wake, so I grab the first article of clothing I can get my hands on, climb off the bed and tiptoe out the door.
In the hallway, I lean my back up against the wall and stare up at the ceiling. My stomach is swirling, as I smooth Roscoe's t-shirt over my body and creep toward Luke's room. I knock lightly and wait for a response. After standing there for several minutes, I poke my head in to find it just as empty as the night before.
A walk through the house reveals he hasn't returned, so I shuffle into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. I stare at the phone on the wall by the archway, contemplating my next move.
I should call them. Check in. She'd want me to. But I don't know what I'd say. And I can't stand to see their faces, let alone hear the desperation in their voices—it would be so much worse. I need to figure this out, come to terms with all of it. On my own.
I'm sitting cross legged on the kitchen island when Ross appears. He's wearing a pair of faded blue jeans that aren't yet buttoned at the waist. His feet are bare and his usual coifed hair, a bed-headed mess. Our gazes lock and I grip my mug, chewing on my bottom lip.
"Sleep well?" he finally breaks the silence and I nod in response. "A little better today?"
I shrug.
He pours himself a cup of coffee, then leans up against the counter beside me.
"Since when do you drink coffee?" I ask. "I thought you were a whiskey-in-the-morning kind of guy."
He smirks. "Trying something new. Besides, I should probably be sober in case I get jumped by a blue-eyed pixie."
I roll my eyes and laugh a little at his joke. It feels good. Almost normal. Though I'm not sure what that is anymore, or if it even exists.
"You hungry?"
I shake my head.
"You should eat," he says.
"You trying to take care of me now?" I ask.
"Someone has to." He reaches forward to touch my hair, just as the doorbell rings. "Shit." He leans over, so quickly I almost miss it, and pecks me on the cheek. "I'll be right back."
I touch my hand to my cheek like a stupid school girl, my stomach swirling and clenching. It's enough to numb the constant pain in my chest and push a small smile onto my face.
The murmuring in the background intensifies to what sounds like a yelling match and I jump down off the counter, poking my head around the corner.
Roscoe is shoving his feet into his boots and throwing on his leather jacket.
"What's wrong?" I've completely forgotten about my state of dress as I catch the horrified expression on his face.
He doesn't respond. He just pushes past Cole and out the door.
Cole doesn't meet my gaze as he speaks. Instead he angles his body to the side, and nods toward his squad car. "There's been an accident. It's Luke."
Epilogue
Sheila
All eyes
are on me as I make my way down the stark white hallway. My shoes clack along, making more noise than is necessary. And I can't blame them for staring. I look...
I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a window and the wind leaves my body for the hundredth time today. I'm dressed in black, from head to toe. I love black. It's a staple in my wardrobe, but not like this. I never wanted to wear it like this.
The dress Mom bought me was atrocious. Shannon would have hated it. She'd come back and kill me herself if I wore something like that to her funeral. I almost wore a turtleneck, just to be funny. But then I knew no one would laugh. No one I could laugh with anyway. So I chose my own dress.
Coco took me to her favorite store. Her treat, she said. She picked up the prettiest dress she could find, but after I tried it on, I refused and decided to go with something more classic—less Ava Gardner more Audrey Hepburn. I've even got the little hat and the kitten heels.
But I'm not at the funeral. I'm at the hospital. And I don't belong. Just like I didn't belong there.
Mom screamed and screamed at me for walking out. And Dad just cried. But I couldn't do it. The way they all looked at me, like it was my fault. Maybe I'm just seeing things, imagining what's not really there. But I can't shake the feeling they all blame me.
I'll probably regret it, but I just couldn't sit there and say goodbye to my sister. I don't want to remember her like that—laid out in a casket, wearing that ridiculous pink dress and those ugly pearls. That wasn't the Shannon I knew. It's the one they want the rest of the world to remember. But it just isn't her. Everything I need to hold onto is right here in my head. In my mind, I already said goodbye, right there in that hospital room.
When I arrive at my destination, there's commotion in the hallway. A doctor and two cops. Cole is one of them. The second he sees me, he approaches.
"What are you doing here?" he pulls me to the side.
"What's going on?" I keep my gaze fixed on the open door. "Is Luke...?"
"He's fine. He's awake." Cole shakes his head. "Why are you here, Sheila? Coco said today was—"
"Why are you here?"
Cole runs a hand over his bald head. "He's being charged."
"Who?"
"Luke."
My eyes bug. "Are you serious? Cole, no. You can't...he just..." I shake my head, piercing him with a glare. "I can't believe you'd do something like this. Don't you think he's been through enough?"
"He was drunk," Cole says, as I pull my arm away. "And high. He could have killed someone."
When I enter the room, Roscoe's head is bowed and he glances over at me then focuses on Luke again. He clears his throat and wipes his face quickly. But the tears are still flowing when he turns back to look at me.
"What are you doing here?" He doesn't sound like himself. But then again, why would he?
"I..." I have no clue how I ended up here. I just kept driving my sister's car, like if my destination would end up being somewhere near her. Anywhere near her. Maybe I've arrived. My gaze locks on Luke.
He doesn't even acknowledge me. He just keeps staring out the window.
There are so many tubes and wires I can't tell what's what. And the bruises—the swirls of purple, yellow, green and blue look like an abstract artist went crazy with a paint brush. He's not Luke. Not even close. Just a caricature of a guy I used to know.
"Don't they bury your sister today?" Roscoe asks, quietly as he leads me back into the hallway.
"Yes, right about now, I suppose."
"And you're here?" He touches my shoulder. "What are you doing here, Carlson?"
And now it's my turn to cry again. Finally. The tears only prick my eyes at first. I sniff, and my voice wavers as I respond. I blink the blur from my eyes and shake my head back and forth, slowly as I respond. "I...I left. I...couldn't."
Roscoe tips my chin upwards. "What happened?" he whispers.
"My mom." I shiver and he pulls me to him. "Sh—she hates me. They all do. I can tell," I wail.
He shushes me, rocking from side to side and patting my head. "No way that's true." He holds me for several minutes and I feel so safe for the first time in days, I don't want to be anywhere else.
"How is he?" I ask, after a while.
"Woke up a few hours ago." Roscoe lets go and turns away from me. "Won't say two words to me. Won't even look at me. I fucked up, Carlson."
"Ross," I grab his hand and he lets out a heavy sigh.
"I can't blame him for being mad. Everything he's done in the past year has been for me. The band. The tour. And now...if he'd been there for her...maybe...It's my fucking fault he's here." He glances back at his brother. "He learned all this bullshit from me. Drinking, girls, drugs, that damn motorcycle. Maybe if I'd let him stay in school instead of joining a stupid band, they'd both be..."
My god. I swear he's right. If Luke had finished school, he might have never met Shannon, or at least taken it as far as they did. Maybe he wouldn't have been in the library that night. Or at the counter. She said she saw him first at the counter when he was asking about taking time off. If they hadn't talked, she wouldn't have fallen for him, had his kid, got married, pregnant again and...
I look up at Ross. His eyes are so red I can barely see the whites anymore. And there are huge bags under them, shrouded by dark circles. He smells like cigarettes and he looks like hell. I glance back at Luke. Roscoe's life's been turned upside down too. What happened to our families, the two people we both love more than anything, isn't either of our faults. It's just our shitty destiny. And I can't blame him for that. I won't.
"It isn't your fault," I whisper.
"I was supposed to be there for him. I'm supposed to be the one person he can count on no matter what, but I let everything I wanted get in the way. Now look at him." He fists his hair with one hand. "They're going to put him away. They're going to lock my baby brother up and it's my fault."
"It isn't," I say quietly. "We all made our own decisions. We all did what we thought was right for us. They chose to be together. He chose to be in the band. You chose to have a life. So did I. We can't blame ourselves." I'm saying all the right words, but I'm not even convincing myself.
My gaze falls on Luke again and I think about Shannon, lying there on the bed. The doctor pulling the sheet over her head. My mind whirring. Me begging him not to give up, bargaining with him, bribing him to keep trying. The look on Mom's face...
"Don't beat yourself up," I whisper. "He's alive, Ross. At least he's still here."
A faint smile, plays on his lips and he pulls me to him again. "You're right."
I wrap my arms around his waist and the warmth from his body, the comfort of his embrace, erases everything else.
"You should go home." His voice is stronger now and the vibrations tickle my cheek.
"I can't. Not yet."
He pulls back, and tilts my face up to him. "Then home can be with me for a while. If you want."
My heart jolts and I swallow back the words I know I should say. The ones that will stop this thing—whatever the hell it is—from starting before it gets out of control.
Instead, I say, "I think I'd like that."
Their story continues in….Black Out (May 2014)
About the Author
F.X. Scully loves romance, but she doesn't write your typical Happily Ever After. Because let's face it, in the real world, it can sometimes take a lot of angst and pain before you get there. And some of us never do. But since most of us pick up books to escape the real world, her stories don't lack hot boyfriends and sexy encounters. Neither will she leave you completely heart broken, sobbing into a tub of ice cream. Rest assured you'll be on a roller coaster, but you'll be glad you went along for the ride.
F.X. is the author of TWO THOUSAND 3 (November 2013) and BECAUSE OF LUKE (February 2014).
Acknowledgements
It’s been another incredible ride. I have thoroughly enjoyed writing this book and am thrilled to have been able to share this story and th
ese characters with you. I’d like to first thank you readers for taking the time to get lost in the world of Lewiston Blues. There’s more to come, happily-ever afters and regrets alike ;)
Thank you, Tirzah! Whoever said editing is “Price-less” never met you….couldn’t resist that one :P You truly are an incredibly talented editor and, like I said, I can’t imagine releasing a book without having you read it first!
Raina Campbell (Grapevine Book Tours) you too are an amazing talent. Thank you so much with your help promoting Because of Luke, with the Cover Reveal and the Book Blitz!
Thanks to Jenn Fischetto for talking out some of the scenes with me. Especially that ending!
And thanks to my family and friends for being so, so understanding as I got lost in yet another one of my stories. I owe you some serious quality time!
More Books by F.X. Scully
Two Thousand 3: a comatose memoir
AN AMAZON BEST SELLER IN HUMOROUS EROTICA!
"Christmas Carol in a Chick Lit"
"..a great and unique read...!"
"A quick and easy read that will keep you engaged the whole way through!"
If you could do it all again: What would you change? Who would you choose?
Reese Clarke is sports agent extraordinaire. With an impressive client list, she's on the fast track to becoming partner at her Seattle-based agency and is engaged to the first-round draft pick, and the agency's bread and butter, Neil Baxter.
Then everything comes crashing down.
Neil cheats on her.
She has a bitter reunion with a sexy ex.
And she gets hit by a car
All in the same damn day.
When she wakes up, twelve years in the past, she doesn't know how she got there, or how to get out. Confusion grows to pleasure, then quickly spirals to anger as Reese struggles to find her way back home. All the while being forced to relive her greatest love affairs--one ex at a time. But older and wiser Reese soon realizes she's been given a break. A chance to do things differently this time around.
