Everything She Ever Wanted: A Different Kind of Love Novel

by Liz Durano

  Everything She Ever Wanted

  A Different Kind of Love Novel

  Liz Durano

  Copyright © 2016 Velvet E. Durano

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover model: Franggy Yanez @franyanezphoto

  A Different Kind of Love by Brendan James, used with permission.

  To Sara Jane Crow

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Dax and Harlow’s Playlist

  Acknowledgements

  Other Books by Liz Durano

  About Liz Durano

  Follow Your Bliss with Michelle Jo Quinn

  Maybe what you need is a better kind of love

  One that you could only dream

  Maybe it will take all the sorrow away

  And let you feel free

  – Brendan James, A Different Kind of Love

  Chapter 1

  Harlow

  If someone had told me six months ago that going off-grid would make the perfect vacation, I’d have considered them crazy and crossed them off my friend list. Off-grid meant off-everything. Away from civilization, cable TV, and worse, Wi-Fi. All right, I’m exaggerating because I do have Wi-Fi, even if it’s very spotty. And none of my friends picked this place out in the middle of nowhere; I did. But still, how on earth was I supposed to know how my patients were doing? Were their donor kidneys getting used to their new bodies? What about the antibody counts? Were their sodium-potassium levels balanced? What about their blood pressure?

  But that was six months ago, back when the only thing that mattered to me was being one of the top pediatric kidney transplant surgeons in the country who authored countless medical papers and took wide-eyed doctors on rounds at Miller General Hospital, a top medical and research facility in Manhattan.

  I take a sip of my wine and lean back in my chair, gazing out at the wide expanse of sagebrush outside the double-pane glass windows. It’s dark outside my sustainable home-away-from-home, and all I see are the moon and the thousands of stars in the sky. It’s a breathtaking sight, one I haven’t seen before I came up here, not when I’ve lived most of my life in the big city with most of my waking hours spent inside the hospital treating patients or holed up in my office typing away research papers.

  I can’t remember now what possessed me to stay on the outskirts of Taos, New Mexico, but here I am anyway, away from it all, just the way I’d planned it—or not planned it. At least, the part where I’m sitting alone in the dark, drowning my anger and grief in my third glass of wine.

  It had started with the newspaper announcement that Jeff was getting married in three weeks. Friends back home were so shocked by the latest development that they forgot themselves and just had to call me.

  Was the divorce even final?

  Good question. But I wasn’t about to tell them anything, not when I couldn’t call a single one of them a friend, definitely not after they showed me just how much more important their reputations were the moment things fell apart in my marriage. Of course, they had to pick the Director of Transplant Surgery at Miller General Hospital, and not his unstable wife, even if she happened to be the Assistant Director of Transplant Surgery.

  This is what I get for not venturing outside of our old circle of friends. I should have worked harder at making friends on my own, especially after Jeff filed for divorce. But it’s too late to worry about such things now, not after the friends had already made their calls, pretending to act concerned about how I was taking the news of his impending nuptials.

  Did you know he’s getting married to his secretary? And she’s pregnant with his baby! And hadn’t Jeff and I been trying to have a baby for the last five years, and even after all the IVF treatments and acupuncture, nothing happened? Nothing that meant a successful pregnancy, anyway?

  Learning Leilani was pregnant definitely hurt, especially when I knew it was the one thing Jeff had always wanted—a child, preferably a son who would carry his name. And for five years, after every implantation and their corresponding failure, I finally accepted that it had to be my fault like he always insisted. After all, I was hitting forty, and the old eggs must have long shriveled up, even though all my medical training told me it wasn’t possible, not when my estrogen levels and other numbers were fine.

  But that’s all part of the past now. The venerated transplant surgeon, Jeff Gardner, M.D. filed for divorce eight months ago, and life went on. Unfortunately for me, it meant life inside the same hospital where we both worked as transplant surgeons until one of us had to leave. And it certainly wasn’t going to be the Director of Transplant Surgery. Nope, not in a million years.

  I slip half a teaspoon of rich fudge between my lips and chase it with a long sip of red wine. It’s something I learned during my first and only trip to Napa Valley so many years ago and being a chocolate girl, it’s a habit that stuck, especially when I’m stressed. And boy, am I so stressed that I’m despondent. I don’t know why, or that’s what I tell myself because I do know why I’m feeling this way.

  I’m a fucking failure.

  I take another sip of wine, forgoing the fudge this time, and then another before I pick up the gun next to the half-empty bottle of Bordeaux. I rise from the couch, feeling the room sway around me. I take a deep breath and stare straight ahead, determined to finish what I’d started.

  With the glass of wine in one hand and the gun in the other, I make my way towards the front door with its tempered glass insert, probably useless in a zombie invasion, and stare at the darkness beyond it. For a moment, I can’t figure out how to open the door with my hands full. Still holding the gun, I set the wine glass on the floor next to me and pull open the door, step outside and turn around to pick up the wine glass. Hell if I’m wasting any of this wine. At two grand a bottle, the landlady can use the rest of my deposit to cover the cost.

  I make my way outside towards the fire pit area, ignoring the gravel cutting into the bottoms of my feet. I’m too numb to feel it, and soon I’ll be too dead to feel anything else.

  I take another sip of the wine, though this time, I spit it out, feeling it dribble down my chin. From the way I’m wobbling on my feet, I’ve had enough of it even though I’m not quite there yet. I still need one more glass to dr
own out the rational part of my brain that’s begging me to think my decision through, telling me that things aren’t that bad; that despite what Jeff told me over the phone this afternoon, it was a terrible idea to kill myself out in the middle of nowhere.

  Who’d find my body out here? Would the coyotes get to it first? Is that why I picked the field of sagebrush to do the deed while I’m still standing, where no one would notice my body till after the vultures would circle the area days later? I just wish I’d put on some footwear before I’d come out here because that damn gravel is really starting to hurt, breaking through the veil of numbness that I hoped would keep me till the very end.

  But even as I stand out here, my thoughts are getting discombobulated, the rational—albeit drunk—part of my brain begging the emotional, fucked-up part of me to please, please reconsider. You’re just letting Jeff win. And he will win the moment that bullet enters your brain, you know. And what a smart and beautiful brain it is, too, wasted over a man who’s so intent on making up for his tiny dick that he pisses over everyone, even the ones who helped him get to where he is now. And honestly, Harlow, do you really want Little Dick to win? Do you? Do you?

  I laugh out loud, my laughter lost in the surrounding darkness. Behind me, the Earthship I’d rented for the next three weeks stands gloriously lit up with solar lights, like a beacon in the night. It’s one of those weird-looking sustainable homes one sees off the highway just outside of Taos, built with its back against a hillside, or bermed as the landlady, Anita Anaya, told me. Built from re-purposed materials like crushed soda cans and old tires packed with earth that make up the heavily insulated walls and fences that surround the property, and multi-colored glass-bottled walls that filter sunlight into the rooms, it’s like something out of a Flintstones movie. Solar panels and wind turbines generate more than enough DC power for the whole Earthship, stored in several types of deep cycle batteries next to the garage.

  There’s also a cistern inside the utility room that gathers water from the rain and nightly condensation, which is then filtered, so it’s good enough to wash my dishes and do my laundry as long as I used organic detergents. That way, that waste water is then filtered through the indoor vegetable garden and from there, it ends up as the brownish water in my toilet. There’s so much more to the Earthship christened the Pearl, like the beautifully carved woodwork that draws the eye at every turn, accents that only a master carpenter could have made. But that’s as much as I had time to notice during my quick tour yesterday before I said, yes, I want it for three weeks, and paid in cash.

  I just hope Anita checks up on me before the three weeks is up. To be fair to her, it’s why I’m out here surrounded by buzzing mosquitos instead of inside the Pearl. It would be such an inconvenience to kill myself in such a beautiful place when I had all the outdoors to blow my brains out while I was drunk and beyond caring.

  Unfortunately, as another sharp piece of gravel cuts into the skin of my foot, I’m not past that beyond-caring stage yet. But I also don’t want to drink another glass of wine to get to that point because I’d probably end up puking my guts out, and that would be so messy. I hate messy. I yawn, not even bothering to cover my mouth since my hands are full, anyway. Crap, now I’m also sleepy.

  Ah, screw this.

  I turn back to the Pearl and make my way back, fumbling clumsily at the door. With one hand holding the wine and the other, the gun, I’m not quite sure how to grasp the handle and turn it open without shooting myself. And wouldn’t it be a hoot if I shot myself by accident this time? To think I’m a damn pediatric surgeon, able to transplant donor kidneys into my young patients yet here I am, Dr. Harlow James, unable to open a simple door. I feel ridiculous. But the moment I step inside and shut the door behind me, I realize I don’t care how I feel (drunk) or look (probably terrible). I just want to go to sleep and pretend this craziness never happened.

  I stagger towards the couch and return the wine glass to the table. I rest the gun on top of the note I’d written, barely remembering what I’d scribbled earlier through all my tears. I sigh, feeling more foolish now than when I started this drinking binge hours earlier, but I’m still here, still breathing, and my brain is still in one piece. Who cares if I can barely remember what started this whole thing about killing myself in the first place?

  But if there’s one thing I know, I’m going to have a hell of a hangover in the morning.

  Chapter 2

  Dax

  I was never into fairy tales.

  But discovering a real live princess in my house at three in the fucking morning when all I want to do is crash after a long drive from Flagstaff reminds me of the story of the three bears and that blonde chick who breaks into their pad, eats all their food, and sleeps in their beds, too. Just like the one that’s in mine right now.

  At first, I was afraid she was dead, but the gentle rise and fall of her chest told me she that she was just passed out, probably from the half-empty bottle of Bordeaux in the living room that she must have enjoyed all by herself for there was only one wine glass next to it. But of all the wines she had to pick from the cellar, it had to be the 2005 Château Lafite-Rothschild Bordeaux I had been saving for a special occasion. Two grand down the drain, courtesy of Goldi-fucking-locks here, who’s not only passed out cold, but she’s also naked.

  Thank her lucky stars the sheets cover her hips, though it doesn’t cover her torso, her gorgeous full breasts on full display. I have to stop and stare for a few seconds even though my mind tells me to look away. I’m a man, after all, and not a dead one at that. And her tits are real, not those fake ones that I see all the time just about everywhere. I adjust myself before walking out of the room and shut the bedroom door quietly behind me. Just because I own the place doesn’t mean I can crash it anytime I want, and certainly not with Goldilocks snoring on my bed.

  Once in the living room, I pull out my phone and scan my calendar. Did I agree to have the place rented out this month? My calendar app appears on my phone screen, and the next three weeks are shaded in red to indicate that Nana did rent the place out at the last minute. I check my text messages, and sure enough, she sent me a text message yesterday telling me that the new tenant had paid in cash. She even left a message on my voicemail. Too bad I didn’t check any of my messages because that would have certainly saved me a trip. But I’d been too busy the last two days finalizing custom orders.

  I exhale and sit down on the couch, picking up the bottle of Bordeaux and taking a sip. I might as well find out what two grand tastes like. I doubt she drank it straight from the bottle, so I’m not worried about cooties at all. And even if she did, that’s no big deal. The big deal is sitting right in front of me, sharing the same space with the wine and a jar of half-eaten fudge.

  A gun.

  I sure hope she brought it for protection. A woman traveling alone in the outskirts of Taos is not exactly a good thing, not when the Pearl, the name I’d picked out for the Earthship I mostly built on my own, is off-grid and about a quarter mile away from the nearest highway. The only people who rent the Pearl are usually individuals and families curious about sustainable living, and small groups who taught yoga and meditation. But maybe I’m going about this all wrong, assuming only the worst. Maybe the woman is expecting company. It wouldn’t be unusual for one party to arrive early and the rest coming later. Still, the gun bothers me, especially when it’s resting on top of a note that begins with five words.

  I’m sorry I failed you.

  I take another sip of the wine before I set the bottle down. I never was a wine drinker. I’d bought it to impress some woman I was madly crazy about many years ago. Madison Dane. That’s what I get for snagging a fashion model for a girlfriend. Even her name sounds like a clothing brand, but it works for her because now, it is a damn clothing brand.

  Better than Madison Dane Krakowski, she told me when I helped her set up her clothing line years ago, just before we broke up. And when we get married, I’m not taking
your name either. Drexel. Isn’t that the tool brand thingie?

  That’s Dremmel, babe.

  Oh, same thing, she had shrugged, flipping her blonde hair like she always did. Nope, Madison Dane it will be for me.

  We never did get married even if she’d dropped the hint more than a few times. Sure we had fun together, and damn if the sex wasn’t amazing, but that was about it. I wasn’t what she wanted anyway, definitely not a woodworker from Taos. Even if my work had won one award after another and my company, based in Flagstaff with a showroom in Manhattan, was now making millions, I was still a carpenter. Besides, we barely saw each other, not with her jetting off to some exotic location for her modeling shoots every week, and me flying from one client’s home to another to assess what they wanted me to build for their homes. Two years later, I hear Madison snagged herself some Los Angeles Kings hockey player and was living the life in Manhattan Beach, California.

  To each his own, babe. Nice knowing you.

  I push thoughts of Madison away and pick up the gun. A Gen 4 G19. Damn, but this is one serious piece. The only reason I know this is because one of my friends, Neil Alvarez, is a cop, and he always likes to tell me about them. So either Goldilocks knows her guns, or she knows someone who does. The magazine is full, and there’s a bullet in the chamber. The safety is off.

  Not good.

  I turn my attention to the letter, the choice of whether she brought the gun for protection or for something else heavily depending on what’s on that piece of paper. For a few moments, I debate reading it, not wanting to be nosy. I have no business poking into my guests’ affairs, but at the same time, there’s no denying the fact that there’s a loaded gun inside my property sitting above something that looks suspiciously like a suicide note. So technically, if ever there was a need for an intervention, it was now.