Bittersweet Melody

by Belinda Boring

  I was tired of running, tired of that ever-present façade I maintained. It was hard work pretending to not give a shit. Even when I thought I had it perfected, like a house of cards, with one word, Caylee had sent it crashing.

  And I’d let her.

  I’d opened up the smallest part of my heart, and she’d stormed in, making herself at home.

  “I think I might love her, Lola,” I whispered. “And that terrifies the fuck out of me.” Glancing down at my sweet dog, it felt safe to confide that to her. Something inside me eased, and another piece of my soul unlocked.

  I was changing, had been changing.

  The future suddenly appeared much more real—something beyond the superficial wall I’d hidden behind. Cracks were surfacing, chinks in my armor, and I didn’t care.

  I wanted to say it was last night—that the sex between us had been life-altering. It had been, but it went deeper than that. If I was being completely honest, my world was forever changed the moment she’d come to see me that first time after the show. I just hadn’t been ready to acknowledge it.

  But I was ready now.

  I was done beating myself up over how I felt—holding myself to some standard of honor that kept me in a constant state of denial—allowing guilt to dictate my every move.

  It was time to finally live and let ghosts of the past fade away. I had her now. Everything I’d been craving was mine. Caylee wanted me as much as I needed her.

  I just hoped I had the strength to hold on tight and never let her go.

  She’d saved me.

  And with that thought, the last piece of my heart completely thawed.

  Cooper and Caylee’s story continues in . . .

  BITTERSWEET SYMPHONY

  About The Author

  A homesick Aussie living amongst the cactus and mountains of Arizona, Belinda Boring is a self-proclaimed addict of romance and all things swoon worthy.

  With all that excitement, it wasn't long before she began writing, pouring her imagination and creativity into the stories she dreams. Whether urban fantasy, paranormal romance or romance in general, Belinda strives to share great plots with heart and characters that you can't help but connect with. Of course, she wouldn't be Belinda without adding heroes she hopes will curl your toes.

  Surrounded by a supportive cast of family, friends and the man she gives her heart and soul to, Belinda is living the good life. Happy reading!

  You can find Belinda Boring:

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/pages/Belinda-Boring-Author/200626723318915

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/BelindaBoring

  Official Website: http://www.belindaboringbooks.com

  Other books by Belinda Boring

  The Mystic Wolves series

  The Mystic Wolves (#1)

  Forget Me Not (#2)

  Testing Fate (#3)

  Forever Changed (#4)

  Savage Possession (#5)

  Darkness Unleashed (#6)

  Last Wolf Standing (#7)

  A Very Mystic Christmas (Novella length collection of memories)

  Other titles

  Broken Promises (#1, Brianna Lane series)

  Enchanted Hearts

  Loving Liberty

  Wanderlust (#1, The Story of Us series, coauthored with Lacey Weatherford)

  Coming 2015/2016

  (Follow me on social media to keep updated!)

  Enchanted Frost (sequel to Enchanted Hearts)

  Blood Oath (#8, the Mystic Wolves series)

  Bittersweet Symphony (#2, Damaged Souls novel)

  If you enjoyed Bittersweet Melody, continue reading for the first of HERE WITH ME by Heidi McLaughlin, USA TODAY and NYT Bestselling author …

  HERE WITH ME

  The Archer Brothers #1

  Chapter 1

  Ryley

  Each step I take is painful. Not in the sense that I’ve been physically injured — unless you can count my heart being torn out and ripped to shreds, twice, as being physically hurt — but in the sense that my body aches with any type of movement. I’m sore all over from too much crying and a lack of eating. Withering away to nothing, as my best friend, Lois has been saying for the past two weeks.

  The fact that it’s been two weeks since my life has been turned upside down flipped inside out and run through the ringer stops me mid-step. Lois smashes into my back, no doubt looking at her phone, texting someone she shouldn’t be and meddling in my affairs. Even though I love her, I want her to stop. I want to wake up from this nightmare and have my life go back to the way it was six years ago.

  Lois places her hand on my back, urging me silently to take the next step, and the next one and the next one after that. She’s been my rock for as long as I can remember, and surprisingly there was a time when I didn’t need her as much, but that’s all changed.

  At the top of the staircase sits a table with a small bouquet of freshly picked flowers, a nice touch to the drab location. When Lois pulled in front of the building, I recoiled in my seat. The brick building, old and worn with age, shows no sign of being welcoming. The sidewalk is cracked and weeds grow in between the slabs. The only saving grace is the park across the street, and while it’s empty, it looks inviting, if not a place to escape.

  Lois opens the door before I can raise my hand to knock. She’s impatient with me and I understand why. I know deep down she’s afraid I’m going to turn and run. Believe me the thought has crossed my mind a time or two. I know it’s not the answer, but it makes the most sense. If I can’t be found, I can’t be hurt, and I’ve had far too much hurt in my life to last me until my last breath. With her hand on my back, she gives me a gentle nudge to step into the office. The woman behind the glass wall looks up briefly and gives us a half smile. She probably feels the same way I do about the building. It’s lacking in life, much like I am right now.

  After giving her my name, I sit down next to Lois. Her face is now stuffed in a magazine, and she’s ignoring me. This is her idea of tough love. I’ve been down this path with her before so I know what to expect. You’d think by now I’d be a pro and can deal with whatever is thrown my way, but I’m not. It seems that every few years my idea of happiness turns into a weak excuse for life.

  My name is called, and I’m directed through an open door. The room I step into is lackluster and cold. I cross my arms to ward off an impending shiver and chastise Lois for making me wear a dress today. My cardigan is resting in the backseat of her car when it should be on my shoulders.

  “Good morning. What’s your name?”

  It’s in the chart on your desk, I want to yell out, but refrain. Lois would likely hear me and scold me like a child. I’d take it though because she’d be right. The lady behind the desk doesn’t ask me to sit down or guide me to the chair or couch in her office. She doesn’t even look at me. This meeting is feeling a bit too impersonal for my taste, and as I reach for the door, I hear her clear her throat.

  “Ryley, I like to ask my patients to say their names so that their identities aren’t forgotten when we start discussing why you’re here.”

  It makes sense, I think. I opt to sit on the couch, but only on the edge. I don’t want to be comfortable or complacent.

  “Ryley Clarke,” I answer, letting my name flow easily from my lips.

  “Tell me, Ryley, what brings you in today?”

  Of course she wastes no time punching me in the gut. If it weren’t figuratively, I’d flinch and let her know that it’s not okay to hit, but instead I straighten my back and ponder the question that seems to have brought me to this point in my life. A point where I’m required, no begged, to enter therapy to help figure out the rest of my life. Maybe not even the rest, but the next step. Either step I take leads me down a path of love, pain and irreparable hurt.

  Most importantly, I don’t want to be here. I don’t think talking to a third party with a psyche degree is the answer. Sadly, I’m the only one who feels that way. I’ve been told therapy will help, but I’m not s
o sure it will. You can’t fix something that has been destroyed for years. We aren’t a family of teddy bears with missing eyes or ears that can be sewn back on making us look somewhat new. We’re a damaged bunch, destined for nothing but heartache.

  I pick at the threadbare couch that I chose to sit on. It looked more comfortable than the chair in front of her. It’s royal blue, or at least it used to be. I think at one time it was probably soft, plush and very comfortable, and people didn’t have a problem lying back, closing their eyes and letting all their worries flow from their mouths. You would think that with the many people that come through the door, a new couch could be purchased. I may be wrong in my assumption. I likely am. This couch holds secrets that no one ever wants out, and it’s about to know mine too. Maybe that’s why she keeps it this way.

  “Why am I here today?” the words are a whisper on my lips. I can barely hear them myself and know she can’t hear me. Clearing my throat, I keep my eyes downcast and away from her face. The last thing I want is for her to see the pain in my eyes. That’s for me and me alone when I stare in the mirror, asking myself how and why.

  “I’m here so you can fix… this.” The words are bitter and angry. I spread my arms out wide, and my knuckles scrape the side of the worn out armrest. I pull my right hand to me, examining my fingers for any signs of damage. A sliver maybe, something to cause pain, anything to make me feel. I have nothing.

  I lean forward, determined not to cry. I don’t know why I’m here. I healed. I moved on. We moved on. Life was good, not better, but manageable. We were happy. We laughed and loved and we missed him terribly, but we woke up each day determined to make a new happy memory. But then life — no, I take that back — the military made that all change.

  If I were a conspiracy theorist, I’d say this was all planned, but honestly, what do they care about my life? Nothing, that’s for damn sure. They don’t care that they’ve ruined the last six years of my life because of some clerical error. “Sorry,” is all they could be bothered to say.

  They’re sorry.

  I realize now that I’ve spoken, the floodgates are open, and I can’t get my words out fast enough. She, the one who sits behind a desk taking notes, doesn’t have a clue as to what I’ve been through, but I’m about to tell her.

  “I don’t know why I’m here. I’m not sure a session or a million sessions can fix my life right now. People have told me that time heals all wounds, but they’re full of shit. I think when that saying was coined, they meant a scratch or a bump, not a hole in the middle of your chest that you’d have to put back together piece by piece. A hole so big that when you breathe in, it burns and makes you ache all over. One that makes you beg for someone to show you mercy, even if no one will because they all feel the same way as you. And was I ever really healed, or did I wake-up one morning and decide that I needed to move on?”

  “It does take time to heal, Ryley, and everyone has to do it at their own pace.”

  I laugh out loud and adjust the way I’m sitting. I wish I hadn’t worn a dress today, but Lois insisted, and I’m at a point in my life where I just do as she says, so I put on a yellow sundress and pulled my hair into a blue ribbon. That’s as good as it gets for me right now. But sitting here, I want to be in sweats. I want my white socks covering my bare toes, and I want to be buried under an oversized sweatshirt. I want to hide.

  “Time is my enemy. Time is the one thing I don’t have and can’t afford to lose. Time…” I shake my head and look toward the window. I bite my lip and close my eyes. My mind is blank. I refuse to see their images. I don’t want to look, or remember. “I need to find a way to stop time or reverse it.” I nod. “Reversing time would be ideal. If I could do that, I wouldn’t be sitting here right now. My life… it’d be on the path that I created, that I worked hard for, but it’s not. I’m standing in the center of the Interstate with traffic coming at me from both directions waiting… desperately waiting for someone or something to change everything that has happened in the last six years. So no, time doesn’t heal anything. It just prolongs the hurt and pain.

  “It sounds like you’ve had a lot to deal with, maybe more than others. Do you find solace in your friends?”

  I shake my head. “I have two very close friends. One is from high school, she and her husband moved down here once the twins where stationed here. The other is a military wife. Any other friends I had bailed. I’m sure they didn’t bail because of me, but because of the military. You move on, ya know? They don’t want to associate…” I stop and think about that word. “Associate isn’t the correct word; it’s fear. They see what I went through and fear rips through their bodies, and they do what their bodies tell them: fight or flight. They all chose flight because they’re all afraid they’ll go through the same thing one day.”

  “What else do you experience from your friends and family?”

  Easy question. “Pity. I got so sick and tired of the hugs and the pats on the shoulder. The looks — those were never-ending. I didn’t need to see the pity in their eyes as they went from looking at me to looking at my belly. Everyone is sorry, but what exactly are they sorry for? Are they sorry that they voted for the people who sent our military to war? Are they sorry that their children aren’t out defending our country? What are they sorry for?” My voice rises with my last question. I want to know. What goes through someone’s mind when they tell you they’re sorry that your loved one has died?

  “I always want to ask why. Why are you sorry? Did you do something that I’m not aware of? Did you pull the trigger or supply the enemy with equipment to do harm? No, I didn’t think so. Thing is, all the pity looks are back and each one brings me to my knees because guess what? They’re all sorry again, and this time it’s not going to matter what decision I make. Someone will be hurt. For that, they can be sorry.”

  “Ryley, I’m going to ask you again why are you here today?”

  For the first time since I walked in the door, I look at the therapist. Her hair is cut short, framing her face. It’s brown, but muted. There’s no vibrancy to her color. It’s dull and outdated, much like her couch. Her white, long-sleeved shirt is buttoned high, as if it wants to choke the life out of her. Her cat-like glasses perch on the edge of her nose, and she reclines in her chair with her pad of paper resting on her lap, her pen poised to write down my words at a moment’s notice.

  “I’m here because six years ago I lost the love of my life, but now he’s back from the dead, and in a few weeks I’m set to marry my best friend. His brother.”

  To continue reading, HERE WITH ME is now available on Amazon, Apple iBooks, Barnes and Noble, and Kobo! Enjoy!