by Chloe Walsh
I wasn’t blind and I wasn’t in denial. I could see the whole childhood sweethearts turned lover's bullshit fairytale was important to her. I didn’t fit into that life she had planned out. Thing was, I didn’t care because I knew there was a piece of her sectioned off for me.
Just me.
I knew it and all I needed her to do was wake the hell up and realize it, too.
She was worth so much more than the life she'd attached herself to.
I wanted to take care of her. I wanted to snatch her away from the bullshit life she'd unwittingly tied herself to and show her everything she deserved.
I wanted to show her how to live.
"That is one bad mother-fucking idea," Noah stated in a no-nonsense tone. "Take my advice, man, and run far, far away from that situation. Nothing good will come out of messing around with a girl like her." His brown eyes seemed to bore through me as he spoke, and I could tell that Noah was willing me to take heed of his warning. "Trust me when I tell you she will never leave that guy. Not for you, or any other love-struck fool who tries."
"We're friends," I heard myself reply and Noah rolled his eyes.
"Yeah," he snorted. "And I'm a fucking virgin."
When I didn’t say anything further, Noah shook his head and said, "Alright, man. Do what you gotta do. But when she rips your heart out of your goddamn chest – and she will – don’t say I didn’t warn you."
"Wow. Thanks for the great advice and vote of confidence," I shot back mockingly. "Asshole."
"You don’t need any more confidence, Lucky," Noah laughed. "You're already full of shit." He inclined his head towards the entrance of the gym and said, "Come on. Let's go grab a bite. I'm fucking starving."
"Yeah," I agreed, following after him. "Me, too. I’ve been craving chicken all day."
Chapter Twenty-One
JORDAN
"You look lost in your thoughts again," I stated, looking across the restaurant table to where Hope was resting her cheek in her hand and staring off into nothing. I had been promising to take her out for dinner at a nice place in town since getting back together, but because of my hectic work schedule, I was only getting around to it now.
"Oh, I'm fine," Hope replied. Straightening in her seat, she dropped her hands on her lap and flashed me a smile. "Just daydreaming about my book."
That was a lie, but I didn’t push it. I had no idea what happened to Hope at South Peak Road that night. I only knew that in the time that had passed since she slipped out of my house in the middle of the night to go see Teagan, she was…different. Distant. Further away than before.
I wasn’t sure if it had something to do with me, but either way, I didn’t dare broach the topic. I was afraid if I did, I'd hear something I couldn’t handle.
She kept secrets from me now.
That, I was certain of.
I could see it in her eyes.
Somewhere along the way in our eight years of misery and separation, I had lost the right to be in Hope's internal circle. Of course, she'd vehemently deny it if I asked. But it was obviously to me that my spot had been filled by Teagan and Noah.
The waiter arrived to our table with our main courses then and we both tucked in. "So, how's it coming along?" I asked between bites of my salmon. "The book?"
"Okay," she replied as she devoured her steak. "Not as fast as I would have hoped, though."
"Isn't that normal?" I swallowed a piece of fish and took a sip of water. "You can't rush creativity."
"No, I suppose not," she agreed with her mouth full, both hands armed with a fork and a steak knife as she attacked the piece of meat on her plate. "But try telling that to a hoard of eager readers and a demanding editor." She swallowed another bite of her meal before reaching for her glass of wine. "I've been steadily releasing five books a year since I first published. It's now March and I haven't released since August last year. That's an eight-month gap." She looked disappointed in herself and I couldn’t understand why.
Maybe I was clueless about the business of indie authors and self-publishing, but I thought eight months was totally acceptable. "That's nothing," I tried to assure her. "Most authors I read have gaps of one and two years or more between releases."
"Most authors you read are traditionally published and financially cushioned by a publishing company," she shot back, stabbing her meat with her fork once more. "Trust me, I've been in the indie publishing business long enough to know that an eight-month gap between producing a book is not a good thing." She grabbed the stem of her wine glass and gulped down a large mouthful before saying, "Time breeds doubt in readers, and for every month that passes in this industry that you don’t produce a book, you risk losing your ranking."
I didn’t get it. I honestly didn’t. Hope was writing stories, not racing against time to find the cure for cancer. She made it sound so cut throat and dire.
"Why don’t you just try and get yourself a deal with a publishing house and be done with all this added pressure of trying to do everything by yourself?" I heard myself ask. I saw the long days and countless sleepless nights Hope invested into her work. It was a solitary and isolating career.
Personally, I didn’t understand why she felt the need to do it all on her own. She was talented. She didn’t need to be wasting all of her spare time on marketing and formatting and all that crap. She was good enough to get a deal.
"Have your agent send out some feeler chapters and see who bites?" I Immediately wanted to take it back. The look of outrage in Hope's eyes assured me that I had said the wrong thing.
"For your information, my being self-published is a choice." She spat the words like poison. "I've had plenty of offers from multiple publishing houses all over the world." Dropping her fork and knife down on her plate, she picked up her napkin and wiped her mouth before tossing that down, too. "I've turned them all down because I choose this route."
Dammit, I had clearly offended her. I opened my mouth to apologize, but she obviously wasn’t finished ranting.
"I really hate that," she growled. "Someone sees a self-published author and automatically assumes that their one goal in life is to be traditionally published. Like anything else is second best. Ugh." Huffing loudly, she drained the last drop of wine before slapping the glass down on the table none too gentle. "Has it ever occurred to them that maybe said author doesn’t want to take that path in their career? Has it ever crossed their narrow traditionally published minds that the financial opportunities and freedom of choice that come with self-publishing just might be in that author's best interests? No, of course not. Because when they see that an author is self-published they automatically assume it's because they can't get a traditional deal." She blew out a breath before adding, "What fucking bullshit."
I tried and failed to come up with something to say to ease the tension that had settled between us. We ate the rest of our meal in silence, opting out of having dessert before paying the bill and leaving. It wasn’t until we were pulling her truck into the driveway of my house, that Hope finally broke the awkward silence.
"So, I may have overreacted a tad back there," she announced, casting a quick glance in my direction.
A tad? "You're passionate about what you do," I replied, trying to smooth everything out. "I didn’t mean to insult you."
"You didn’t." Killing the engine, she unfastened her seatbelt and turned in her seat to look at me. "Okay, maybe you did, but I know you didn’t mean to." She exhaled a heavy sigh and placed her palms on the steering wheel. "I'm very defensive about what I do, Jordan." Her voice was low as she spoke. "For me, writing has always been my therapy. My safety net. The thing I threw myself into when my life spun out of control. And now I'm struggling… it makes me feel uncertain. And when I feel uncertain, I get anxious. And when I'm anxious, I get blocked. I hate being blocked."
"I bet." Dealing with uncertainty couldn’t be easy for Hope. She was always so sure of herself. "Is there anything I can do to help?"
"No," she sighed sadly. "I'll
have to figure this one out on my own."
I understood that.
I knew all about needing to do things by myself.
So instead of telling her lies and promising I could fix something we both knew I couldn’t, I remained quiet and let her think it through on her terms.
Chapter Twenty-Two
HOPE
I wanted someone to swoop in and save me from the impending deadline of doom circling above me. The story I was working on had been driving me crazy for months now. I was blank, couldn’t seem to strain a single word from my fingers and it was making me go insane.
Of course, I knew the only one who could do that was me, but it still didn’t stop me from wishing for a knight in shining armor with an extensive vocabulary and fabulous story-telling abilities to come and save the day – or my book to be exact.
Because of my defensiveness, our first dinner date had gone to hell. Jordan had taken time out from his crazy schedule to take me out, and I'd ended up having a mini-tantrum.
I felt guilty as sin over the whole thing. But another reason I felt so depressed over our argument was that it was a very sudden and cold wake up call for me. Jordan and I were two very different people now.
As much as loved him, and I loved him deeply, we didn’t quite fit anymore.
He didn’t understand my work and I had no clue about his. It hurt my heart to even contemplate the idea that we had drifted apart since childhood when I wanted nothing more than to be wrapped up in all he was.
We walked into the house side by side, but I could feel the stinging ridge spreading between us; a ridge that ricocheted further apart when we walked into the kitchen and were faced with Annabelle.
She was dressed in a basic, lemon tank top and flannel pajama bottoms. Her long blonde hair was swept on top of her head in a makeshift bun and her face was bare of makeup, and I swear she still looked like a freaking supermodel. My eyes took in her swan-like neck and painfully lean body in envy.
How was this fair?
How did women like Annabelle and Teagan go through pregnancy and childbirth and come out looking like rakes?
Meanwhile, the closest I'd ever been to having a baby was when Teagan sat on me at eight months pregnant, and yet I was the one that looked like I had produced half a dozen kids from my ever-widening, childbearing hips.
I hated these cursed curves I had inherited from my mother. Thick hips, even thicker ass, cinched waist and painfully big breasts.
The only luck I had was my father had given me height to carry my body shape. It still sucked though, being around all these skinny, perfectly proportioned women. They looked like Victoria Secret models while I looked like a fucking walking porn star. Not a good look for a career woman – which was why I usually dressed in hoodies and jeans or sweats. Loose clothing saved me from the countless ogling stares I received from gross men.
Thankfully, Jordan seemed to think the same as me. In fact, he didn’t seem to take any notice of her appearance at all.
It was obvious from watching them these past few weeks that their relationship was purely platonic. Sure, Jordan and Annabelle were close, but it was a best friend type of close. I wasn’t sure why, but sometimes that bothered me even more. It made me think of Hunter and the friendship I used to share with him. It made me miss his friendship…
"How was dinner?" Annabelle chirped in that soft, feminine tone of hers as she removed a tray of freshly baked cookies from the oven before placing them on a cooling rack on the counter.
"Ryder down for the night?" Jordan asked as he walked over to where she was standing and snatched a piping hot cookie from the rack before juggling it from hand to hand, obviously waiting for it to cool down enough for him to eat.
Meanwhile, I walked over to the kitchen table and took a seat. I still felt uncomfortable around them. I knew Jordan was constantly trying to put me at ease, and Annabelle, when she wasn’t annoying as hell, was actually pretty nice to me, but it was still hard for me.
"Yeah, he was shattered and went down at eight," she replied, snatching the cookie back from him and returning it to the rack. "There hasn’t been a peep out of him since, poor little guy." She then smacked the flour off her hands before turning and giving me a megawatt smile. "Let me guess, he got the salmon at dinner?" Her question was directed at me and when I nodded, she threw her head back and laughed. "You're so predictable, Jord."
"I know what I like," he shot back with a rueful smile. "The way I see it, there's no point in me messing around with other dishes when I've already found my favorite."
For the next hour or so, I watched them go back at forth with each other. Everything about this situation was different to what I knew – to where I'd come from. I found myself unable to relate to the topics of conversations they spoke about or the banter they used. I felt completely left out. Worse, I felt like the third wheel in my own marriage. I envied the easygoing relationship she seemed to have with my husband. I craved to be able to banter back and forth with him like she did without any fear of upsetting him or making him close up.
Hours later, when we were lying in bed, I found myself staring up at the ceiling with an unbridled amount of energy coursing through my veins. Hell, maybe my parents should have had me tested for ADHD when we were kids, too, and not just Cameron. But then again, I was normally a heavy sleeper. Nine times out of ten, I was out cold the minute my head hit the pillow. Not lately though. Not in months.
Every time I closed my eyes, I was haunted by the godawful image of Teagan's lifeless body that horrible afternoon last year. Of the broken look in Noah's eyes when he dropped to his knees in that hospital waiting room as the doctor told him the worst news a parent could hear. Even though months had passed, and they were both in a good place now, my heart still broke for them. And when my thoughts weren't taking up with those horrible memories, they were replaced with mental images of what I had done that night in the Ring of Fire.
Of what I had helped conceal.
I had always known there was a dark side to me. As a teenager, the threat of the Ring of Fire had spiked illicit and dangerous levels of excitement inside of me when it should have scared me silly. As an adult, I had been exposed to a dark and illegal underworld of crime and violence, not to mention dangerous and ruthless men who showed almost book-boyfriend levels of devotion to their women. The danger drew me like a moth to a flame, and even though I managed to hide it well, it was always there, this wildness just beneath the surface, itching to get out.
What I did with Hunter that night – what I had wanted to do – had somehow released that darkness in me. And now here I was, a mediocre writer, with a vanilla existence, craving a lifestyle that was so far out of the bubble it should have sent me running.
It didn’t.
Without permission, my thoughts drifted to Hunter and those stupid text messages he had sent me last week. Those messages were the reason I had avoided going to South Peak Road all week. They were also the reason I found myself tossing and turning at night.
I never texted him back that day and I despised the part of me that wished I had.
I was well aware of the tattoos he bore on his body, the instinctive marks that represented a life of crime and prison-gang violence. I knew about the guns. The loss of life. The danger he represented to me. And it only seemed to make me want to be around him more.
God, I was so completely fucked up.
Forcing my mind blank, I turned onto my side and studied my husband's sleeping frame as he lay on his side with his back to me.
My heart ached at the sight of him laying here with me. My thoughts drifted to much safer thoughts now. Memories I welcomed with open arms.
The bike rides we had taken together as children. Fishing at the lake. Backyard camping adventures and the cushion filled forts in my parent's living room.
I remembered the child my husband used to be and smiled. Those cute reading glasses he was always pushing up on his nose. The beautiful drawings he used to creat
e and how he'd always made me feel like I was the most important person in his world.
Life was so different for us back then.
We had both been so different back then.
I was much darker now. I was capable of dreadful, unspeakable things that should make me feel remorse, but didn’t.
"Jordan?" I whispered into the darkness, desperate to hear his voice and have him comfort me. "Are you awake?" I knew he wasn't, but that didn't stop me from selfishly reaching out and trailing my fingers over the bare flesh of his shoulders.
The moment I touched him, I realized my mistake, but of course, it was too late to take it back. Jordan sprang up in the bed, jolting away from me.
Instantly, guilt swarmed me.
God, I was a shitty wife.
"Sorry," I whispered, biting down on my lip, when he finally focused his startled expression on me. "I didn’t mean to…" I reached my hand out again to comfort him before thinking better of it and quickly snatching it back.
He caught ahold of my hand midair and gently tugged, settling it against his chest. The small amount of physical contact caused my heart to flutter wildly in my chest.
"What's wrong, Hope?" His voice was thick from sleep as he tightened his hold on my hand. "Why are you still awake?"
Because I'm a horrible person and I can't sleep with all the blood on my hands.
"I was just thinking," I whispered instead.
Jordan turned on his side to face me, still holding my hand to his chest. "Thinking about what?"
"About life," was all I was willing to say, all I dared to say. Jordan could never know the things I knew. No one could. No one but Hunter. I would have to take my secrets to the grave. "It's family night tomorrow at the house of Carter," I said in a lighter tone, steering the subject away from my criminal activity. "Will you come with me this time?" I could hear the hopeful, almost begging glint in my tone and I hated it. I didn’t want to have to beg my husband to hang out with my friends. But we had been back together over a month now and Jordan had yet to face my friends or my family. Every time I asked him to join me, he always came up with excuses as to why he couldn’t make it, and I wasn’t holding out much hope for tonight's invitation.
