Devil’s Creek
Bittersweet Hollow, book 2
Aaron Paul Lazar
Copyright
Devil’s Creek by Aaron Paul Lazar
This is a work of fiction. All concepts, characters and events portrayed in this book are fiction and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Aaron Paul Lazar.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, except brief extracts for the purpose of review, without the permission of the publisher and copyright owner.
First Edition, June 2015
Cover art by Kellie Dennis, of Book Covers By Design
Published in the United States of America.
Reviews
You’re about to dive into Devil’s Creek, book 2 in the Bittersweet Hollow series. If you enjoy it, I hope you’ll consider leaving a review on Amazon. It doesn’t have to be long or fancy—just a few lines about what you liked best or how the book made you feel is perfectly fine.
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- Aaron Paul Lazar
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Devil’s Lake
Bittersweet Hollow, book 1
Two years ago, Portia Lamont disappeared from a small town in Vermont, devastating her parents and sister, who spent every waking hour searching for her. When she suddenly shows up on their horse farm in a stolen truck with a little mutt on her lap, they want to know what happened. Was she taken? Or did she run away?
2015 Finalist Readers’ Favorites Awards
2015 Semi-finalist in Kindle Book Review Awards
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Dedication
To my beloved readers, without whom none of this would be possible.
Part I
The Itch
Present day
Chapter 1
The itch was back.
Grace stepped out of the tub onto a fluffy pink rug and reached for a towel from the rack, slowly drying herself in front of a full-length mirror. She plugged in the hair dryer and blew her honey-colored hair dry, admiring its luster and bounce. Batting her big blue eyes, she stared at the perfect reflection.
With a giggle, she imagined meeting the stranger tonight. “Why, yes. I’d love a drink. Are you buying?”
Turning to see herself from the back, she nodded approval. She hated to brag, even to herself, but her body still resembled those girls Renoir painted so well. She admired herself openly. High breasts. Firm butt. Rounded hips. Soft, creamy skin. At twenty-six, she had no wrinkles. At least not yet.
She smiled at herself, then powdered and primped and preened, all the while feeling the want grow inside her. She needed to find someone new. Someone big, muscled, and very male. The more hair on his chest, stubble on his chin, and leather on his body, the better.
Just for a few days, of course. Then she’d return to Anderson, as always.
The itch grew. From the inside out, starting in her belly, it spread to her whole body and she felt the tiny whispered thought turn to a roar.
It’s time. It’s time. It’s time.
She had laid out her white slacks and a purple sweater last night, because she was due at the bookstore in an hour. So, the adventure would have to start after work. She pursed her lips and made a kissy face at the mirror. “Hang tight. We’ll have fun later.”
Anderson poked his head in the bathroom door. “What’s that, sweetie?”
Grace stiffened. “Oh. Nothing, baby. Just thinking out loud.”
“I’ll be late tonight. Remember?” He eyed her with obvious longing and clumsily buttoned his Oxford shirt, tucking it into his Dockers.
She snorted. “Right. That staff meeting thingie?”
“Sort of. It’s the final session to discuss scholarships for candidates we really want in the program. You know. The stars. The triple threat kids who can sing, dance, and act. Gotta lure them in somehow.”
“Okay.” She hadn’t paid attention lately. She couldn’t. She just wanted… someone new.
Since they’d moved back to Vermont to be closer to her parents, Dirk and Daisy Lamont, and her sister and new husband, Portia and Boone Hawke, Anderson’s job had been a pain. His new job as Dean of the Theater Arts School at The University of Vermont was a lot more demanding than when he was a simple professor. She’d liked the old job much better. Now he had more meetings, more responsibility.
“Want me to bring home Chinese?” he asked, sliding his arms around her waist and kissing her forehead. “That way you don’t have to cook.”
Her culinary skills weren’t much to brag about, she knew that. “Okay. What time do you think you’ll be back?”
“Probably seven-thirty.” He reached up to caress her cheek. “You are absolutely gorgeous. Do you know that?”
“Thanks, baby.” She knew. How could she not? She beamed a smile at him and suddenly pulled him down to kiss him, thrusting her tongue against his. Her hand ran lower, brushing the front of his slacks.
He gasped, and backed up a step. “Gracie.” His voice turned husky. “Cripes. You know I’ve gotta leave in ten minutes.”
“Can’t you be late this morning?” She turned on the charm now, eyes wide and lashes fluttering. Leaning forward, she pressed her breasts against him. “Let’s have a quickie.”
He groaned when she stroked him again.
He flicked his wrist to check his watch before lifting her in one swift motion to the counter beside the sink. “Baby. You’re killing me.”
She quickly unbuckled and unzipped his pants, and in seconds, drew him inside her. She imagined a dark man this time, covered in tattoos. He’d just approached her from the alley behind the bar, and had pushed her up against the wall.
She wanted danger.
She wanted someone new.
Anderson knew her body well, and within a few minutes they’d both exploded in pleasure. Him, panting and still hungrily kissing her. Her, wrapped up in another fantasy, as always.
As much as she loved her big teddy bear husband, she couldn’t peak without imagining someone new. Someone a little scary. A real bad boy.
It had always been that way.
She collapsed against him and sighed. “Thank you.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Thank me? Thank you.”
She giggled and patted his rear. “Have a great day at work, honey.”
He collected himself slowly, fastened his pants, and leaned down for one more kiss. “God, I love you.”
She smiled up at him. “Love you, too.”
Chapter 2
Grace put on her silk robe and raced to the computer. She craned her neck to see Anderson’s car turning out of the driveway and clicked into her Facebook account.
Five new messages. All from him.
Her heartbeat quickened and she felt an unbearable yearning fill her again. It spread through her, fast and dark, and she trembled while tapping the keyboard and tracing her fingers across the track pad.
This guy sounded really cool. And sexy as hell.
The first message showed his picture, shirtless and leaning against a fence post.
Chandler. Nice, if it was his real name. But she didn’t care. All she wanted was a night or two of wild abandon.
He didn’t look bad. Not bad at all. A little older than she had expected. But hell, weren’t older guys the best in bed?
He had a square chin, rugg
ed face, and short, spiky black hair. He must live in the gym, because those abs didn’t come naturally to anyone.
She imagined walking up to him. Envisioned his big hands. His scent.
Shivering with excitement, she typed an answer to his question. “Yes. Six tonight at the Lone Stallion Inn. Meet me at the bar.”
She attached one of her best photos, and signed it, “Candy.” Nobody had to know her real name, did they?
With her heart ping-ponging in her chest, she quickly dressed and slicked her hair into a ponytail. Then, she turned to her closet, sliding one dress after another past her critical eye. “No. Too red. Not that one, too long. No, too frilly.” Finally, she came upon her black, slinky dress with the scooped neck. “Perfect.” She drew it off the hanger and folded it into her canvas bag. “Now. Shoes and jewels.” She pawed through her dressy shoes, finally settling on a high-heeled strappy black pair she’d never worn. For jewelry, she chose the ruby earrings and necklace Anderson had given her last Christmas. She felt a little guilty, shrugged it off, and carefully packed them into the bag.
Catching herself in the mirror, she stopped. “What the hell are you doing?”
She frowned. She hadn’t pulled the “disappearing act” in well over a year. Since way before the whole Murphy incident.
Stopping, she stared at herself again.
Murphy had been such a prick. He had kidnapped her sister for two long years and had abducted Grace not long after.
Well, she’d shown him, hadn’t she? Now he rotted in federal prison and would be there for the rest of his natural life.
Her therapist had told her she might regress, that “it” might come back when things calmed down. Once they’d settled into their new cottage in the woods, once they’d done all the gazillion things necessary to move from one state to another. Once Portia’s wedding was over.
That part had been fun, she had to admit. Portia had been so pretty in her lacey white dress. And Boone. God, she’d been hot the whole time, watching him in those nice jeans, boots, white shirt, and a black jacket. He was one helluva specimen, the exact type of man she loved to fantasize about.
On second thought, she really didn’t have a “type.” She loved them all.
But she had to admit, these days watching Portia get more and more excited every day about her burgeoning belly, about decorating the room for the upcoming little one… Grace had been getting increasingly ticked off.
It wasn’t fair. She and Anderson had been trying to conceive for longer than Portia and Boone. God, Portia had got herself knocked up in the first month.
She checked the clock and snorted. “Shit. I’m gonna be late.” Fuming now, she ran around the bedroom, hastily making the bed and throwing her dirty clothes in the hamper.
What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she get pregnant? Was it Anderson? Or her? Pretty soon they’d have to go for testing. But deep down inside, she was worried that the drugs she’d done in high school and college might have messed up her ovaries or something.
She’d been a real wreck back then. Addicted to the worst of the worst, heroin, she’d finally kicked that one, won the battle. Except when she did, a new addiction claimed her. Her therapist called it a sex addiction, but she thought of it as a man addiction. Either way, it was time to satisfy the urge.
She stopped her frantic rushing around and smiled into the mirror. “Hey. Screwing strangers isn’t as bad as taking drugs, right?” She paused. “Right. ‘Cause I always come home.”
Grabbing her keys, she headed out to her powder blue Mustang and put it in gear. If she hurried, she might make it to the bookstore in time.
Chapter 3
Anderson sat in a booth at the Silver Sun Chinese Restaurant. The aroma of barbecued pork strips and Szechwan sauce filled the air, making his stomach growl.
Usually he and Grace ate dinner around six, finished up the dishes by seven-thirty, and retired to their comfortable living room to watch television by eight. He was starving, and the spicy smells tantalized him. He imagined Grace and him with chopsticks, eating on the couch for a change because it was already so late. They’d been working through season six of “Foyle’s War,” and he couldn’t wait for the next episode.
He smiled, remembering the morning’s encounter. He was hungry in another way, too. Her erotic surprise this morning had set him off, made him quiver in ways he hadn’t for the past week, when she’d been a little distant in the bedroom.
But now… he smiled again. How had he been so lucky to win her love?
God, she was beautiful. He couldn’t believe it, after all these years. She’d accepted him. Even loved him. How was that even possible?
If someone had told him nineteen years ago when his life had fallen apart that he’d recover and actually be happy again, he would have snorted with disbelief. He never thought he’d have a life again. After the horror of what happened, the uncertainty of the outcome, the lack of knowing… it had taken him years to realize he deserved to find someone again, someone as sweet as poor Caroline.
But Grace certainly wasn’t sweet. She was saucy and flirty and wild. She was impetuous, flippant, and sometimes downright surly.
But, God damn it, he loved her.
She was fifteen years younger than him, and every man who met her wanted her. But she’d chosen him. In spite of all the young studs queuing at her door, she’d picked him.
It hadn’t been easy, of course.
In the beginning, he’d acted as a friend and mentor, helping her in her starring role in their college production of Grease. He’d quickly fallen for her, tried to hide it, but had failed. When the play was over and they celebrated at the cast party, she’d come for him. In spite of his conscience telling him it was wrong, he’d been unable to resist. They’d soon become lovers, and had even become engaged just before she went home for Thanksgiving break that year.
It was during that holiday break that things had gone wrong—terribly wrong. She’d been thrust into a horrific situation after a morning of multiple traumas, and fled with her old druggie pal, Skeeter, to Toronto. Days later, Anderson and her parents had tracked her down in the most squalid situation imaginable.
Anderson found it tough at first to convince Grace’s parents that his intentions were honorable. He’d wanted to marry the woman after the first three dates. And she’d seemed ready to settle down. Her mother Daisy had already shown her support for him, especially after Anderson helped Grace recover from the heroin addiction.
Dirk was a harder sell—after all, Anderson was fifteen years older than Grace. But when Anderson invited her parents to a big homemade lasagna dinner the first time, Dirk started to thaw. By the time he and Grace had been dating for six months, they drew Anderson into their family. And when he’d asked her father for his approval of their upcoming marriage, Dirk had hugged him and given an unequivocal yes.
Once married, things had been steady for the first few months. He’d taken a new teaching job at a prep school in Albany so he wouldn’t break any university rules about dating his own student. After a few unsettled weeks in a local community college, Grace had pulled out of school, saying she wanted to be a homemaker, plain and simple.
They’d made love every day, sometimes several times per day. She’d tried to cook for him—a huge disaster—and he’d happily pitched in as chef and chief bottle washer. He also became quite familiar with the best takeout spots in the city. After a while, Anderson had begun to relax, to think life would be smooth and easy.
Then things changed.
Grace became restless; quick to anger. And she’d disappear for days at a time.
He’d gone insane, worrying about her safety, wondering if she’d be found dead on the streets from an overdose.
But strangely enough, the object of her addiction had shifted. She wanted… no, she needed someone else to sleep with. Someone other than him.
That discovery had crushed him. He’d started to wonder about their marriage, his ability to ke
ep her satisfied, to keep her safe. After they’d both been through a year of therapy, he’d come to realize that it wasn’t something lacking in him, rather, it was Grace’s problem. She needed him more than ever each time she returned. And he tried not to be judgmental, or ask too many questions. To be honest, he was afraid she’d run away for good. He didn’t think he could survive another loss.
But she hadn’t had an episode for quite some time. Eighteen months, to be exact. Yes, he was counting. He was hopeful. Maybe she was cured? She still saw her therapist twice a week, and he prayed it was finally helping her.
Her interest in him this morning made him think maybe, just maybe, she was really into him and he’d be enough for her for the rest of her life.
Sue Ming signaled to him from behind the counter. “All set, Mr. Rockwell.”
Anderson got up from the booth, paid for his food, and headed home with a big smile on his face.
Grace loved him. Wanted him.
It felt so good. He couldn’t wait to see her again.
Chapter 4
In the ladies’ room at the Lone Stallion Inn, Grace finished applying the last layer of deep red color to her lips. She smacked them together, blotting on a tissue. “Mwah,” she said to her reflection. “You’re beautiful. Now go get him.”
She adjusted the bodice of her dress so it displayed her curves better, centered the ruby necklace pendant, and strutted out the door.
Where the hell is he?
Grace sashayed up to the bar and chose a seat at one end. “Raspberry Cosmo,” she said to the bartender, who eyed her appreciatively.
“Coming right up, sweet cheeks,” he said, tearing his eyes away from her cleavage.
“Charming.” She took a dainty sip and laid a ten on the bar. “Keep the change.”
Slowly, she let her eyes roam the nearly empty room. It was almost six and she hadn’t spotted Chandler. In one corner, two truck drivers hunkered over plates of meatloaf. Across the way, a grandmother and a boy who could have been her grandson ordered their dinner from a pert waitress in a short black skirt. Down along the bar, two women—probably in their sixties—eyed her with snotty expressions and sipped their cocktails.
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