Table of Contents
Front Matter
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ALSO FROM BLUE TULIP PUBLISHING
You First
By Stephanie Fournet
Blue Tulip Publishing
www.bluetulippublishing.com
Copyright © 2016 STEPHANIE FOURNET
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
YOU FIRST
Copyright © 2016 STEPHANIE FOURNET
ISBN-10: 1-946061-03-4
ISBN-13: 978-1-946061-03-4
Cover Art by Jena Brignola
For Catie
With love to span the miles
CHAPTER ONE
“YOU’RE FIRED.”
The words landed like a fist in Meredith’s stomach. She stared at her boss, her mouth hanging open. “B-but, Mr. Simmons, I tried to find someone to cover my shift. I told you that yesterday.”
Howard Simmons folded his arms over his considerable middle and gave her his fish-faced pout. “And yesterday I said you could come in for your shift or not come back at all,” he told her with his eyes closed.
Mr. Simmons always talked with his eyes closed. It drove Meredith nuts.
But she couldn’t think about that now. Meredith’s heart, which had been thumping hard, started racing. “Mr. Simmons, I need this job. You know I need this job.”
Her sour boss blinked at her, his expression never changing, but she plowed on.
“Please give me another chance. My… Oscar’s grandmother left me in a lurch. I didn’t have anyone to watch him. I would’ve brought him with me if I could.”
She’d beg. She wasn’t above begging. After everything she’d been through in the last two years, a little begging wouldn’t be so bad. “Please,” she added, wringing her hands together and cursing Jamie’s mother for the ten thousandth time.
“I’m sorry, Meredith,” Mr. Simmons said, shaking his head and sounding most unsorry. “But coming to work with your toddler would’ve been worse than not coming in at all — which is what you did. For the last time, I might add. Please turn in your apron and cashier’s badge. You may collect your last check in the office from Miss Bonnie.”
With that, he swiveled on his heel and left her standing at the front of Champagne’s Grocery, her nails digging into her palms and her nose stinging.
Do. Not. Cry.
Meredith refused to let herself cry. She refused to cry over losing her job because it was Leona McCormick’s fault she’d lost her job, and Meredith wasn’t going to let Leona McCormick bring her to tears anymore. It had been six months since the last time, and she wouldn’t break her streak now.
The woman hated her. It was that simple. Leona McCormick hated her, but she loved Oscar. Which meant that Meredith and Oscar had a place to live. And, as Meredith Ryan knew all too well — after her parents kicked her out when she was seventeen and pregnant — there were worse things than living with someone who hated her.
Sharing a bed with her ex-boyfriend was one of them.
A month into her senior year, Meredith would have married Jamie McCormick the minute that stick turned blue. Any of the girls at Lafayette High would’ve. Dimples. Blue eyes. Sandy blond hair that made him look like a golden Harry Styles. And a smile that had her believing she was everything.
Walking out to the parking lot with a pack of Pampers and her last paycheck, Meredith rolled her eyes at the memory. He’d done her a favor, really. By dumping her for Veronica Sanger when she’d refused to get an abortion, Jamie had kept her from making the biggest mistake of her life.
She wouldn’t marry him now. And he’d asked. More than once. That smile, she now knew, meant one thing and one thing only. Jamie McCormick wanted some.
Meredith didn’t know what was worse. That after more than two years, Jamie still tried out his come-hither smile on her. Or that she still gave into it.
Of course, a whole lot of opportunity didn’t exist for either. Jamie worked twenty-one on and fourteen off as a roughneck on an offshore rig, so more than half the time, Meredith didn’t even have to see him. But during those other two weeks, he was doubly persistent in his smiling efforts.
Another obstacle for him (and safety measure for her) was that they lived with his parents in a 1300-square-foot house with three bedrooms. Leona and James “Big Jim” McCormick’s bedroom shared a wall with theirs, and the only thing worse than having your baby-daddy’s parents next door while he tries to get it on with you is trying to sleep while said parents get it on with each other. And as much as it made Meredith throw up in her mouth when she heard Leona calling Big Jim’s name, it saved her from Jamie’s advances because, while Jamie McCormick was pervy on many levels, getting off to the sound of his mother’s Os was not on any of them.
And, finally, while the house technically had three bedrooms, that third room was, in fact, Leona’s sewing room. She took in alteration work and made the occasional wedding, bridesmaid, or formal dress, so the third bedroom contained her Bernina, her serger, a dressmaker’s dummy, an ironing board, a worktable, and racks of clothing for alterations, but it didn’t have even one bed.
Which meant that Oscar McCormick, Meredith’s twenty-month-old son, slept between her and Jamie. And if your parents don’t cockblock you, she mused with a smirk, your toddler has that job covered.
When Meredith thought about it — and she tried not to — it seemed to her that there should never be an opportunity for Jamie to make his advances. Especially considering that most of the time Meredith was mad at him. And yet, all too often, she would find herself on her back, catching her breath after Jamie crawled into bed with that goddamn smile.
Jamie and his smile were scheduled to return onshore in nineteen days. Which meant she had a few weeks to find another job so she wouldn’t be hanging around the house with nothing better to do than attract his attention.
Meredith collapsed into her dinky, faded-red Nissan Versa, pulled out her cracked-screened iPhone 4, and texted Brooke.
Meredith: I’m so screwed. Simmons just fired me.
She started the car and cranked the feeble heater before her best friend texted back.
Brooke: Noooooo! Why? Want me to key his car?
Meredi
th laughed. Brooke Cormier could always make her laugh — even when life was shitty. And in the last two years, she’d encountered her fair share of shitty. Meredith loved Oscar more than she could have thought possible — more than anything in this world or the next — but Brooke was a close second.
She typed.
Meredith: Not worth it. Besides, not his fault.
Before she could press send, the phone rang in her hands.
“A glitter bomb,” Brooke said as she answered.
“What?”
“Mail him a glitter bomb. He opens the package. Glitter explodes. He’ll look like Tinkerbelle for the rest of his life.”
Meredith put the car in gear, laughing.
“He’ll never be free,” Brooke continued. “I mean it. Glitter is the herpes of the arts-and-crafts world. An ounce of glitter detonated in his living room would contaminate every corner of his puny, fish-mouthed existence.”
“Stop,” she begged, wiping her eyes. “Really, he’s not the one I blame.”
Brooke was silent for a moment. “Leona.” It wasn’t a question.
“You guessed it.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Grab Oscar, bundle up, and meet me at the field.”
THE MCCORMICKS LIVED near the corner of Dean and St. Landry, right across from the Mickey Shunick Memorial and the electrical substation. The view of the substation sucked, but Meredith ignored it and always focused on the memorial instead. The mounted, white bike made a ghostly homage to the brave young woman who’d been attacked on her ride home. She’d fought that serial-killer bastard with his own knife — a five-foot-three girl macing and cutting a monster.
Even though she lost her life, the nationwide search for Mickey led to the monster’s arrest. And every time Meredith passed the white bicycle — whether she was pushing Oscar’s stroller or taking a walk by herself to get away from the McCormicks for five minutes — she felt stronger for its presence, as though Mickey Shunick’s fighting spirit blessed the place.
“Boys!” Oscar cheered from his stroller. They passed the substation and were directly behind UL’s Horticulture Center. Across the street lay one of the university’s intramural fields and, as usual on most afternoons, a group of international students was deep in a game of cricket. Brooke had parked her dad’s white Toyota truck in the far corner of the field, and she sat waiting for them on the open tailgate.
Just as Meredith was about to complain that it was too cold to sit in the bed of a truck, Brooke lifted a CC’s to-go cup in greeting.
“Is that a King Cake Latte?” Meredith asked, breathless.
Her best friend nodded. “You know it.”
Meredith grabbed the cup with both hands and inhaled the warm, sugary promise with its hints of cinnamon. “You’re a saint. If I ever have another kid, I’m naming her — or him — after you.”
Brooke glared at her cock-eyed. “And who will be fathering this kid? Because I like the naming idea, but I don’t want to encourage this line of thinking.”
Taking a sip of the liquid heaven, Meredith pushed the question aside. It was too depressing to consider, and she didn’t like to talk about Jamie’s favorite pastime. Brooke was right. Even though she wanted more kids at some point in her life, she did not want them with Jamie McCormick.
Which should have been excellent motivation to stand firm each time she tried to shut him down. But Jamie McCormick was not a big fan of “no.”
“Boys!” Oscar yelled again, pointing to the cricket players and kicking his chubby legs against the stroller. “Boys playing.”
“That’s right, baby,” Meredith said, reaching down and tugging the knit beanie over his ears. Tufts of his golden curls flattened against his forehead. “The boys are playing cricket.”
“Boys playing cweaket.” Oscar watched starry-eyed as the bowler let the ball go, bouncing it down the pitch where it connected with the batsman’s paddle. “Ya-a-ay!”
Meredith and Brooke laughed as Oscar cheered. He tracked the ball as it cleared the boundary, earning the team six runs. “Cweaket!”
“Wow, he’s good,” Brooke murmured, her eyes on the tall batsman with café au lait skin. Oscar wasn’t the only one who liked watching the boys play cricket.
Meredith’s butt was cold against the tailgate; she didn’t have a job, and Jamie would be back in a few weeks. But she also had a best friend who had brought her a King Cake latte, a son who would be happy watching a cricket match for another hour, and a plan to build a better life for herself.
So, eventually, life would get better. It had to.
CHAPTER TWO
“YOU HAVE TO take them.”
“I take them. I told you that.”
“Gray, you have to take them every day.”
Grayson Blakewood glared at his brother. His kitchen island separated them, and Baxter glared back, holding the bottle of those goddamned pills.
“I can’t.” His simple shrug drew Bax’s scowl.
“You mean you won’t.”
Gray blinked in concession. “You’re right. I won’t.”
A frustrated breath left Bax’s lungs. “Do I have to move in and become your nursemaid? You may be my big brother, but I’ve got twenty pounds on you. I bet I could pin you and shove one of these down your throat every morning.”
Gray let himself grin. He ran his thumb over the faint scar Bax had given him just below his lip when Bax was seven and Gray was nine. He’d give almost anything to have his brother tackle him to the ground like he’d done when they were boys. Pound him with his fists. Go for a choke hold.
Anything was better than being treated like an invalid.
Because he wasn’t an invalid. Not technically. Not yet.
If Gray thought his brother would fight back, he’d actually throw the first punch just so he could feel normal again — even for a little while. But Baxter wouldn’t hit back. He’d just let Gray whale on him, afraid one touch would break him.
Like a fucking egg.
“You know, finishing your latest novel won’t matter very much if you’re dead,” Bax said, trying to sound scary but instead sounding scared.
Gray bit his tongue. Nothing mattered more than finishing his fourth novel. The latest installment in his Alex Booth detective series had sold more than 4,000 copies in the first week, landing him a spot on the New York Times bestseller list for the third time. The fourth book would be his best yet. Gray could feel it. And if he were lucky, he might have time to knock out a fifth. After that, there were few guarantees.
But his little brother didn’t like to be reminded of that.
“If I can take them every third or fourth day, I can keep things under control.”
Bax rolled his eyes. “That bruise on your forehead? Is that a sign of you keeping things ‘under control?’” He mocked him with air quotes, and Gray turned toward the fridge and lingered over the business of pouring a glass of orange juice so Bax couldn’t study the mark. It had faded since his last seizure and subsequent fall, but it clearly hadn’t faded enough.
“Please tell me you’re not driving.” Baxter’s voice had gone soft with real worry, the sound making Gray turn.
His brother gripped the edge of the counter, the pills still in his hold. Tension sharpened the lines of his shoulders, the veins in his hands. His posture spoke of anger, but his brown eyes held only sadness.
Gray found himself telling the truth. “Just on days when I take my meds.”
“Jesus Christ,” Bax swore, going pale. “Do you realize what could happen—”
“On the days I take my meds, I’m g—”
“You could kill yourself. My God, you could kill someone else.”
Gray cringed. “It’s not like that. The medicine works when—”
“Do you have any idea what that would do to Mom and Dad? To me?”
Gray’s head snapped back. He’d expected a lecture. Bax was always good for a lecture, but he wasn’t ready for a guilt tr
ip.
“Low blow, Bax,” he muttered. The Blakewood family had already suffered enough.
His brother shook his head, bitterness crimping his lips. “No. It’s not. Take the fucking meds. Every day.”
“I can’t.” Gray pressed his fingers against the granite countertop between them. “I can’t write when I take them.”
Baxter eyed him with doubt. “Yes, you can. I’ve seen you write with them.”
“No.” He shook his head. “You’ve seen me type words and string sentences together, but there’s no story, no imagination. I’m writing shit. And when I’m off the pills, the ideas are pouring in.”
“So talk to Dr. Cates and switch to something else,” Bax said, shrugging.
Gray gritted his teeth and spoke through them. “I don’t have time for that.”
“What do you mean?” The worry in Bax’s voice spiked. “Do you think it’s growing? Are your symptoms changing? When’s your next scan—”
“Bax.” Gray raised a brow at his brother. “You’re a twenty-six-year-old man, not a fifty-nine-year-old woman. Please don’t turn into Mom.”
“Answer my questions.”
Gray studied his brother. Bax used to be the fun one. Growing up, they’d all had their roles. Gray, the wunderkind, shutting himself in his room and writing plays and poems and short stories as early as third grade. He’d needed to be the observer, not the entertainer at the dinner table. That had been Bax’s job, telling stories, doing impersonations, and charming their parents and the occasional guests — anything to amuse Cecilia while still shielding her from the attention of others. Their little sister — the painfully shy baby of the family — could forget her self-consciousness when she watched Bax command the spotlight.
But that was so long ago.
Bax belonged in a space that rippled with laughter. Half the people Gray considered friends had really been Baxter’s friends first. They flocked to him, drawn and held by his warmth and humor. The playful mischief in his eyes had dimmed when they’d lost Cecilia, but it hadn’t died. Looking at his brother across his kitchen, Gray realized he hadn’t seen him laugh in weeks.
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