Valley of Fire (Valley of the Moon Book 2)

by Bronwyn Archer

  “Stanford, right?”

  He fiddled with the radio and switched stations from classical to hip-hop. I waited for his answer. “Well, I did my senior year at Stanford, then a year of business school.”

  “Just your senior year? Where did you go for the other three years?”

  “Oh, this school in upstate New York.”

  “Which one?”

  He sighed and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Little place called West Point.”

  West Point? I remembered hearing the pitch for West Point from the college adviser at Briar. West Point was for super-ambitious students who wanted to be army officers. But Alexander was a spoiled rich kid who drove a $300,000 car and demanded five-star luxury hotels. Why would he go to West Point?

  And why hadn’t he graduated from it?

  “You look surprised,” he said.

  “Why did you go there in the first place? And then why did you leave?”

  He rubbed his chin. “It may sound corny but I wanted to serve my country. And I wanted to play football. But mostly, I wanted to get away from home and not have to ask my parents for tuition, since West Point is free. They were not happy when I got accepted. Which made me even more determined to go.”

  It took me a full minute to process what he’d said. “You played football?”

  His jaw muscles twitched. “Until I blew out my knee in a game. I’d just found out a good friend was killed in combat. My head wasn’t in the game. I got hit hard and had to be carted off the field like a dying racehorse. Spent three weeks in sickbay, totally immobilized. I left school a month later.”

  I narrowed my eyes, confused. “Why did you leave? Because of your injury? Because of football?”

  He kept his eyes on the road and didn’t look over at me.

  “It’s complicated. I guess I felt like I let my team—and myself—down.” My stomach tightened up and I watched him. I sensed there was more to the story, but he was done talking about it. I bit my lip to keep more questions from spilling out into the suddenly tense atmosphere.

  I scrolled my phone and casually asked, “So where should we stop for lunch? Are you in the mood for fried chicken, fried chicken, or fried chicken?” He smiled and his body relaxed.

  #

  I tried on and discarded every one of my stupid road outfits, and was struggling to do something cute with my hair. I sighed and settled for my cleanest t-shirt, shorts, and flip flops, and pinned my hair back on both sides so it at least looked semi-cute. My eyeliner had melted and dried into a stick of lumpy obsidian in the heat of the car, so I just used a bit of blush and clear lip gloss.

  We’d checked into the ornate Hotel Roosevelt in downtown New Orleans late the night before, and I was meeting him in the lobby for breakfast. It was our first day together not stuck in a car for twelve hours, and my stomach was tangled in a thousand knots.

  When I got downstairs, he was perched on a chair, sipping a steaming cup of coffee and reading the newspaper. When his eyes found me, my stomach lurched. He tapped his watch and waved me over.

  I practically skipped up to him. He was wearing his white jeans and a snug t-shirt. His sunglasses hung from the front of his t-shirt, revealing just a peek of his smooth, tan chest. Bright sun filtered in through the front windows of the neoclassical hotel.

  He scowled and eyeballed me from head to toe. “You’re late. But since it’s your fake birthday, I’ll let it slide.” He slapped the paper on the table, stood up, and held out his elbow. “Shall we?”

  Two attractive older women stopped short when they saw him and ogled him as we passed. I couldn’t help gloating, just for a second.

  They didn’t have to know he wasn’t my boyfriend and never would be.

  We walked through the huge glass doors and out onto the street arm in arm. It was a gorgeous, warm morning. I scrambled for the sunglasses in my bag and slid them onto my face.

  After a delicious brunch at Cafe Du Monde on Jackson Square, we strolled through the French Quarter. Alexander pointed out various famous restaurants and sights. Then he explained the concept of Mardi Gras.

  “I thought it was just drunk girls showing their boobs for strings of beads from even drunker frat boys,” I said.

  “Uh, well, I came for the parades and the music. I definitely didn’t go to Bourbon Street to see topless women. Nope, I never did that when I was eighteen.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  Not being in a car all day was heaven. Just walking around felt new and different. At some point he took my hand to pull me out of the way of a trolley car—and didn’t let it go. We walked like that, hand in hand, past old mansions with ornate trellises, jazz bars, and coffee houses. We walked by a jazz trio on one corner—three old men sitting on stools with sparkling brass instruments at their feet in open cases eating paper-wrapped sandwiches. One of the men glanced up and saw us.

  He let out a long, low whistle. “That’s a lucky man right there.”

  I looked around. There were no other people on that particular corner, just a pair of college-aged boys in New Orleans Saints t-shirts smoking cigarettes and a man dressed like a chef carrying shopping bags. Alexander nodded to the musician and squeezed my hand.

  When we rounded the corner, there were hordes of tourists and shoppers on the sidewalks. He stopped and abruptly dropped my hand. The air was warm, almost tropical, and the hair at his temples was damp with sweat. His smooth skin glowed. I could smell his cologne, along with a faint odor of sweat. He ran a hand through his hair and checked his Rolex.

  “Now what?” I asked.

  He waggled his eyebrows. “Shopping time.”

  “Oh really? What am I shopping for?” I demanded. I didn’t want to waste a minute of my day with him.

  He trained his eyes on mine. “You need an outfit or two for New York—and something for tonight. Birthday dinner’s at seven. Get whatever else you need to make it through the week.”

  I shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. “But I just went shopping.”

  “A pair of hot pants and flip flops is not shopping.”

  “They’re shorts!”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a money clip full of cash. “Take it or I’m giving it to another, more grateful girl.”

  There was no way out. “Fine!” I said, taking the money clip and stuffing it in my bag. “I mean, thank you.”

  He smiled at me. “That’s better. I have to do a few things before dinner—think you can make it back to the hotel without getting kidnapped or stabbed?”

  “Yeah.”

  He winked at me and started walking away. “Wait!” I yelled. He stopped and turned. “How dressy do I need to be tonight?”

  He pointed at a mannequin in the store window behind me wearing a micro-mini dress in a silver animal print. I stared in horror.

  “Have fun!” he called out. Three teenage girls—younger than me—stopped and turned to watch him as he passed them. They looked at each other and bent over, giggling. When I got inside the first store, I bee lined for the dressing room so I could examine the money clip. I’d never held such a thick wad of cash in my life.

  I counted it—he’d given me fifteen hundred dollars.

  #

  I was wandering through a boutique when a salesgirl walked over.

  “Shopping for something special?”

  “Ah, no. Just need a dress for dinner tonight.”

  She crossed her arms and scanned me up and down.

  “With your boyfriend?”

  I blushed and shook my head. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  The girl cocked her head and raised one eyebrow. “Do you want him to be?”

  Emily the salesgirl quickly became my new best friend. I found a plain black dress for the lawyer meeting and some new jeans, so I could finally retire my only other pair. I also found a pretty dress for dinner and new shoes to go with it. In the dressing room, my phone vibrated. Thinking Alexander was texting me, I picked it up and glanced
at the screen.

  It’s Caleb I need to talk to you.

  My throat seized up. I sat on the chair in the dressing room and typed.

  Leave me alone.

  He was from my old life. I was in my new life. NO way was he going to ruin the day.

  I know you hate me but pls call me!

  Did he really think I cared about anything he had to tell me? Shaking with rage, I typed:

  Caught a new STD from Cressida? Tell her I said hi. She can visit you in prison. NEVER CONTACT ME AGAIN.

  Caleb started to type a message but I blocked his number before he could finish. It occurred to me that if he DID have some kind of STD, he would have possibly passed it to me. He’d used condoms with me, but still—he’d dated HER.

  I’d been too shocked and upset to go to the doctor or the police. I had let him feed me all those drinks. I’d let him kiss me. I’d wanted him to. I shook my head in disgust at the girl I’d been back in the spring. The events since graduation had torn away whatever shreds of innocence I had left. People could be vicious, dark, and cruel.

  Knowing that was powerful. I would never let anyone take advantage of me again. Maybe that was my superpower: to assume the worst about everyone so I’d never be disappointed.

  Chapter 9

  Sinus Asperitatis ~ Bay of Roughness

  When I HEARD THE knock I took a steadying breath, gritted my teeth, and opened the door.

  And then I died. He looked impeccable in dark trousers, checked blue shirt, and a navy sport coat. He was freshly shaven and smelled amazing.

  “You’re late,” I said, playing it as cool as I could as the full force of six feet of dressed-up Alexander hit me like a tsunami.

  “Nice dress.”

  “Thanks. I didn’t spend all your money—but I did try.” I waited for him to say something, but he was uncharacteristically quiet. I slipped past him to escape the weirdness and headed towards the elevator.

  I caught my reflection in the mirrored doors of the elevator bank and blanched. I barely recognized myself. With my short hair and the makeup I’d picked up at Sephora on the way back to the hotel, my eyes looked huge and dark. The dress I’d gotten that day was silky gray with delicate off-the-shoulder sleeves that just hid my scar. It was draped and flowy, but it emphasized all the right things, and ended at mid-thigh, right between demure and daring. Black strappy sandals and a short leather jacket finished the look.

  The outfit looked good. Too good. It screamed “date night.”

  I might as well have worn a sign that said, “PLEASE LIKE ME.”

  Inside the elevator, I batted away the negative thoughts and stared straight ahead, shoulders back, butterflies rioting in my stomach. Alexander seemed tense.

  “Everything okay?” I asked as casually as I could.

  He trained his eyes on me. They were darker and his pupils were slightly dilated. Goosebumps colonized my bare arms. I prayed for the doors to open. I could not bear another second of the awkward tension.

  “I just was not expecting you to . . . look like this,” he said softly, as though he didn’t want me to hear. He tore his glance away.

  “Is that a compliment or an insult?” I retorted. The doors slid open.

  “Figure it out, Salutatorian.”

  My inexperience was a handicap with him. I had so little experience dealing with any of this. He stepped out of the elevator and I hesitated.

  “You don’t want to miss our birthday party, do you?” He grinned and held out his hand.

  #

  In the middle of dinner, the entire upstairs room of the fancy Cajun-themed restaurant sang us “Happy Birthday,” and after making me promise not to tell my dad, we shared a bottle of Champagne. I felt fuzzy and warm and light as air. In the candlelight, his skin glowed.

  “What did you think the first time we met?” he asked.

  I laughed. “That day in my dad’s shop?” He nodded. I shrugged. “Very good looking. A little too good-looking. Intimidating, actually.”

  “Who, me?” He smirked. “You’re the intimidating one. You command attention.”

  I scoffed at that. “Allow me to test that theory.” I waved my hand at a waiter headed our way. He brushed past the table without glancing at me. “That guy did not look commanded.”

  He laughed and took a big forkful of crème brûlée.

  “How come you’ve only had one boyfriend, Lana?”

  My fork froze in midair. His line of questioning would only lead to dark, rotting places. I shrugged and dragged my fork through a slice of chocolate cake. “I went to an all-girls school. It was a miracle I found a prom date.”

  “What about that guy Caleb? What happened with him?”

  My champagne buzz melted away. I put my forkful of cake down. “He was not who I thought he was.”

  Alexander’s brows knit together. “Tell me.”

  In my mind I saw Caleb, naked and sweaty, behind Cressida, gripping her long blonde hair and yanking it back hard. I shook my head to clear away the hideous image and took a deep breath.

  “Cressida threw a big party at her house after the spring formal. I only went because she convinced me we could be friends, which was a lie. She set me up from the beginning, just to get near Caleb, who was my date that night. She was all over him. Then they hooked up at her afterparty. While I was asleep. In another room.”

  He almost spat out his drink. “He cheated on you with your stepsister? That bony blonde with buggy eyes?”

  I stared at him in shock. Is that how he saw her? I nodded.

  “If I ever see that runty bastard, I will bring some hurt down on him real hard. Maybe carve my initials in his forehead.”

  “Believe me, I’d let you,” I said. “Okay, you’re all caught up on my extensive boyfriend history. What about you?” I asked.

  “No boyfriends.”

  “Very funny. Any girlfriends?”

  “What an interesting question. Hang on.” He signaled for the waiter, who practically leaped across another guest’s lap to get to our table. “We’re going to need two shots of Bourbon and the check, please.” The waited nodded and darted away. Alexander threaded his fingers together and rested his chin on his hands. He grinned like a Cheshire cat.

  “Well?”

  “I don’t have girlfriends.”

  “You mean, ever?”

  “Correct.”

  The waiter appeared with two tall shot glasses full of amber liquid. Alexander lifted his and drained half of it.

  “Go ahead, try it,” he said. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

  I picked up the shot glass and sniffed it. It smelled absolutely awful. Emboldened, I took a deep breath and tipped the shot glass into my mouth. The bourbon burned my throat.

  I drained the entire glass and banged it down on the table. My eyes popped open as the alcohol burned all the way down to my stomach. A few seconds later, warmth spread through my body.

  “So, you aren’t dating anyone?” I asked.

  “I used to be young and stupid, now I’m old and smart.” He grinned and his eyes found mine. Every nerve in my body tightened. I squirmed on my chair. He swirled the liquid in his glass. “I liked my freedom. My privacy. I don’t—I didn’t—want to lose that.”

  He leaned forward and crossed his arms on the table. The lighter hairs at his temple caught the candlelight. His eyes were the color of spun gold at that moment. There was a tiny spot of black stubble just under his chin.

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “You were a bad boy, but you’ve changed?”

  “If by changed you mean I stopped dating, then yes.”

  “Oh.” I stared at him with my mouth open. “What does ‘stopped dating’ mean?”

  “It means I haven’t touched a female for almost a year. As penance for my many sins.” His eyes twinkled as he watched me react to the news. I sat back in my chair and refocused on his eyes. He’s . . . celibate?

  I shook my head in disbelief. “Why not just wear a hair s
hirt?” I asked.

  “This was worse, believe me.”

  How many girls had he dated? I moved my legs under the table to tuck them under me. I accidentally brushed my foot on his leg.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  He leaned forward. “You kick me again, I might think you’re flirting with me.”

  Heat rushed to my cheeks. My brain started running calculations to figure out if his celibacy was a good thing or a bad thing for me.

  “Is it permanent?”

  He laughed. “The plan was one year.”

  “When does the year end?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  Oops. I rolled my eyes to distract him from my burning cheeks. “Apparently every woman in America over the age of 30,” I retorted. “What’s wrong with girls your own age?” Or a bit younger? Like, say, eighteen? Who are super distant cousins so it’s probably fine?

  “Let’s see,” he said, checking his Rolex. “It’s been 11 months, 23 days, and forty-six minutes. But who’s counting?”

  My eyes widened. He only has a few days of self-imposed monkhood left.

  “I made this crazy decision right after my birthday last year, so yeah.” He finished the rest of his shot.

  “Was it hard?”

  He almost choked on his drink. “You might want to rephrase that.”

  My face burned. “I meant, has it been difficult?”

  His mouth twitched as he considered my question. “Actually, no. It’s been maybe the best year of my life. Except for the loneliness, but you sort of get used to that.”

  His honesty disarmed me. In that moment, my attraction to him deepened into something more profound. I knew loneliness.

  Sometimes loneliness had been my only friend.

  “Being lonely is its own special kind of hell,” I said ruefully. I took my lip gloss out of my purse and reapplied it as casually as I could, like I could barely muster any interest. “Well? Did the penance work?”

  He flashed a gorgeous, wide mouthed grin.

  “I’m a changed man.”

  My heart sank.

  #

  If the tension in the elevator had been bad, it was nothing compared to the tension in the back of the cab. The shot of bourbon made me feel strange and not quite myself. It didn’t help that when the driver took a hard turn, I slid across the leather seat, practically into Alexander’s lap. He didn’t react. I scooted back to my side of the cab and tried to control my breathing.