I wanted to believe him so badly.
He must have sensed my hesitation. “I swear to you, Gabi. Nothing happened between me and Taylor. Nothing has ever happened. I kissed her once, ten years ago, because I thought I was protecting you from Ryan by driving you away from me. Nothing else ever happened between us, and I hated myself for doing it. I love you now as much as I loved you back then, and I’d never do anything to jeopardize that.”
“You did do something, though,” I said, quietly. “You did something so stupid, you were taken away from me for ten years.”
“I was an idiot, but again, I thought I was protecting you. I planned on taking the money and getting out of town, so Ryan would never have had a reason to threaten you again.”
“But you were still arrested,” I said, needing him to know the truth of what I’d been thinking all these years, “and I’d believed it was my fault.”
He frowned, his face still handsome, despite the blood. “Was that what Ryan was talking about when he said you’d been responsible for getting me arrested?”
I bit my lower lip and nodded. “Part of the reason I left town and joined the Army was because I believed it was my fault you spent the last ten years behind bars. After you told me about getting involved with Ryan, and that you were doing trips for him and implied it was illegal, I went home and told my dad. I thought he’d taken that information and had you followed and arrested.” I covered my face with my hands and shook my head. “I’m so sorry, Cole.”
He pulled my hands away from my face so he could look into my eyes. “It wasn’t your fault, Gabi. None of it was. You were seventeen years old, and your dad was a police officer. I was getting myself into trouble, and you were worried about me. You did the right thing. I was the one who was stupid enough to go along with Ryan’s plans, rather than ask for help myself.”
“I know, but I could have done things differently. When I heard you’d be going down for so long, I felt horrible. It was part of why I ran off and joined the Army. I couldn’t stand to be around my dad, because I blamed him in part, too, but also because I couldn’t live the next ten years in the same town, knowing you were locked up not far away.”
“I knew you’d told your dad, Gabi. Perhaps a part of me wanted you to. At least it brought the sorry mess to a close. Of course, I didn’t know it was coke I was carrying, I did truly think it was only weed.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said again.
“Hey, stop saying that. Maybe this whole thing was fate. Maybe if you hadn’t told your dad, I would have ended up heading down the same route in life and gotten myself killed by some drug dealer, or ended up hooked on drugs myself. Who the hell knows? The point is we’re here, now, together and safe. Ryan won’t ever touch us again, and Taylor knows not to come anywhere in our vicinity, but even if she does, she can’t hurt us. I’m yours, Gabi, for as long as you’ll have me. I always have been.”
I nodded through my tears. “I’m yours, too.”
Cole pulled me into his arms and kissed me.
Three Months Later
Gabi
WE STOOD OUTSIDE OF the single story house, looking up at the green wooden cladding and white painted window shutters, a set of keys in Cole’s hand. The moving truck containing all of our worldly belongings sat in the street behind us, a couple of guys waiting in the cab for the word to start unpacking our gear. We didn’t have a whole heap of stuff, but we’d been accumulating bits and pieces over the past few months.
This house was to be our home, mine and Cole’s. Our first real place together. We hoped this would be the start of our new future, one that would hold many years of happiness, with hopefully marriage and children at some point. We hadn’t started trying yet, but we talked about it when we lay together in bed at night—how many we would have and what we’d call them. That I would be raising children when I had a disability didn’t worry me at all. They wouldn’t miss out on a single thing.
I’d finally gotten my blade, and was running again, even spending time on the track, which was something I’d never even bothered to do when I’d been at high school. My body was strong and athletic, and I was no longer embarrassed or ashamed by my stump. I’d survived an incident in Iraq where a good man had died, but that wasn’t my fault, and it wasn’t my fault I had lived. Guilt had played a big part in my decisions over the whole of my adult life, but I wouldn’t allow it to control me anymore. I’d started to let that guilt go, and be proud of who I was and how far I had come.
My dad was doing much better. He’d spent a couple of weeks in the hospital, but was now fully recovered from his gunshot wound. He’d even stopped drinking, though alcohol would always be a tempting demon for him. He’d had a couple of relapses, but had gotten back into the program right away. This was a long road for him, and I didn’t expect miracles, but he was trying and that was the important thing.
Cole was still working at the restaurant, but he was also doing a lot of volunteer work with children from difficult backgrounds. He hoped that it would give him an inroad into what he really wanted to be doing—social work. He’d once told me that the only thing he knew was how to be a kid stuck in the system. I guessed he wanted to put that knowledge to good use.
His fingers wrapping around mine caused me to look up at him. My heart clenched with love. He still had a scar above his eyebrow where Ryan’s bullet had grazed him, but it was fading as every week went by. Ryan had been sentenced on multiple charges—including drug dealing after a large quantity of heroin and amphetamines had been discovered in his apartment in a town fifty miles away—and he wouldn’t be bothering us for a very long time. Soon enough, our memory of Ryan would be as faded as the scar he’d given Cole.
Taylor had also stayed out of our way, though Jasmine had been in touch. It was good to know I still had a friend.
“So what do you think of your new home?” Cole asked.
“Our new home,” I corrected him, “and I love it already. But then I’d love anywhere if it meant we got to live together.”
The house had been modified perfectly for me, a wet room, widened doorways and all on one level, just in case I ever needed to be in my wheelchair again for a period of time. My payout from the loss of my leg had come just at the right time, and allowed me to buy this place for us.
Taking me by surprise, Cole bent down and scooped me up. I loved being held against his chest, in his strong arms, but I smacked him on the shoulder. “Hey, put me down.”
He laughed. “Isn’t it supposed to be romantic for me to carry you across the threshold?”
“Cole, I love you, and as romantic a gesture as this is, I think I’d rather walk.”
“Sure,” he said, understanding, and gently set me down.
It was important for me to be able to walk, strong and tall, into our home. This was a new beginning for me, and I intended on starting as I meant to continue.
I smiled up at him and he grinned back down, before ducking his head and kissing me, firm and gentle on the mouth. “I love you too, Gabi.”
I’d been wrong when I’d said there were no second chances. Perhaps we were different now, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t try again. It would take some adjustment, plenty of understanding, and patience, and love—love most of all—but we were doing it. We were getting a fresh start—a second chance at a first love—and I couldn’t be happier.
With a smile on my face, and Cole’s hand in mine, I took my first step into our new life.
Together.
THE END
Acknowledgments
I OFTEN FEEL EXTREMELY lucky to have such an amazing network of generous, supportive people around me, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt this more so than during the writing of this book.
The old adage is ‘write what you know,’ but you can’t always do this as an author. I knew I wanted to write Gabi’s story, but of course I had no experience of being an amputee myself. One of my friends was kind enough to put me in touch with one of her f
riends, who had recently had the same amputation as Gabi, and he was extremely generous with sharing his experiences.
So thank you a million times over, Geoff Ennals. This book wouldn’t be what it is without you. Thank you for sharing your experiences of being heckled in the disabled spots in car parks and for your terrible joke about losing eight pounds in one go! And even more thanks for allowing me to be your ‘sister-in-law’, which helped me to write about Gabi’s prosthesis in much better detail. Perhaps I may have got a few things wrong, so please forgive me if I did! I hope you enjoyed the book.
The second person I need to thank is fellow author Thomas S Flowers, for allowing me to see into his head, via his own novel, about what life is really like in Iraq. I would never have been able to get such an accurate feel for the yellow dust and smells if it wasn’t for that book. Fellow readers, if you would like to read another story about a veteran who also loses a limb, please check out Thomas’s book, Dwelling. Be warned – it’s a scary one!
As always, I have to thank my long-time editor, Lori Whitwam. You made some excellent suggestions about certain things in this book, and I really think it helped the story overall. Apologies for getting more ‘British’ for this one!
Thanks to my proofreaders, Glynis Elliott, Karey McComish, and Linda Helme, for spotting all those annoying little typos that like to sneak through. I hope you all enjoyed the book, and that it didn’t feel too much like work.
And a final huge thank you to you, the reader. I wouldn’t be able to keep writing without you.
Marissa.
NO SECOND CHANCES
Copyright © 2016 Marissa Farrar
Warwick House Press
Edited by Lori Whitwam
Cover art by Art by Karri
License Notes
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
SURVIVOR
All round tough-guy, survival expert, and ex-marine Tyler Janson has been put in charge of minor celebrity Charlie Charleston’s safety on tv realty show, Survivor. But when the plane goes down, plunging them into a real-life fight for survival, sparks fly.
Chapter One
Charlotte Charleston put pen to paper and paused.
What the hell am I thinking, signing up for this?
Her gaze scanned down the contract once again: the production company will not take responsibility for any injuries sustained during filming. The production company will not take responsibility for any cases of poisoning, allergic reactions, or mental health issues resulting from anything which occurs during filming.
Had her career—her life, even—really come down to this?
She continued to read, her eyes skimming down the paper. The production company may set up ‘survival’ situations for the celebrity in order to increase the realism of the show. A survival expert will be on hand in order to help the celebrity, but will not be featured on camera at any time.
A sharp elbow in her ribs made her look up from the paper. She was met with the stern gaze of Agatha Vermont, her agent.
“Get on with it, Charlie,” Agatha said. “We haven’t got all day.”
Charlie sighed and dropped the pen back on the table. “I don’t know about this. I’ve never even been camping. I don’t think I can survive five days alone on a desert island.”
“You won’t be alone. The production company assigns someone to help you—one of these tough, ex-military guys. And anyway, you don’t even know that you’ll end up on a desert island. According to the contract, you won’t know where you’ll end up until you’re actually there. It might be the middle of a forest or even on a glacier or something.”
Charlie looked around at her luxurious surroundings. The production company had at least forked out for one of the best hotels. They sat in the hotel bar now, all expensive wicker furniture, glass coffee tables, and cream cushions. Lush, green ferns broke up the expanse of the dark wood floor.
She sighed again, imagining the expensive bar replaced by a dirt ground and a multitude of bugs. “But this is going to do nothing for my image.” She lifted a lock of silky blonde hair. “If I don’t have my straighteners, I’m going to end up like a frizz-ball within a couple of hours. And the thought of being on television with no makeup frankly terrifies me.”
Agatha leaned forward, her hands clasped between her bony knees, her lips thinning in disapproval. “Charlie, it’s comments like that which confirm to me the exact reason you do need to take part in Celebrity Survivor. The whole ‘It Girl’ thing just doesn’t carry much weight anymore, and an ‘It Girl’ who is also broke is right at the bottom of anyone’s who’s who list.”
Charlie’s eyes cast back down to the contract, heat flaring in her cheeks. Her spectacular fall from grace had been beyond humiliating. Her father’s business had collapsed in a dust-filled demolition of national hotels. Her once-blessed life had been spent living off her father’s money, being seen in all the right clubs, and photographed by the paparazzi while wearing all the top designer clothes. She was basically famous for being famous. She wasn’t any good at anything herself, except looking good and being at the right place at the right time, with the right people. Now her father had been jailed for embezzlement and she was broke. This gig was paying twenty grand, and it was money she needed. Sure, she’d been offered decent money to appear half-naked in magazines, but she couldn’t bear the thought of stooping so low.
“Okay, so maybe I need the money,” she admitted, “but I still don’t see how this is going to help my image.”
“You need to let people see the real you. It’ll be good for the public to watch you struggle, to overcome things, to see the bare-bones of the person who really is Charlie Charleston.”
She wrinkled her nose. “You’re still not selling this to me.”
“I shouldn’t need to. This type of thing has turned plenty of nothing celebrities into stars.”
Charlie turned to the immaculately made-up forty-year old. “Gee, thanks!”
“You know what I’m saying. You need this. You should want to do it even if they weren’t paying you. The money is just a bonus.”
She sighed and picked the pen back up. It won’t be so bad, she told herself. True, she was pretty happy to have been flown out first class to this five star hotel in Singapore, but if she had it her way, she’d be donning her skimpiest bikini and hanging out by the pool, tanning, and sipping mai tai cocktails.
She certainly didn’t want to be dumped in some remote area with nothing but the bare basics to survive on. Plus, she’d have to co-habit with some Neanderthal brute of a man who probably thought eating raw rodent and taking a crap in the bushes was the height of civilized society.
Charlie shuddered. She couldn’t think of anything worse. Oh, wait, yes she could—having the whole experience filmed and put on national television for several million people to laugh at her misfortune. Now that would be worse!
But Agatha was right. She did need this.
Feeling sick to her stomach, she signed the contract.
“Good girl,” said Agatha with a smug smile.
Charlie scowled. It was all right for her agent, she’d still get her fifteen percent cut for basically doing nothing. She was the one who had to seriously rough it for five days.
Something caught Agatha’s attention, her line of sight lifting above Charlie’s head and across the r
oom.
A smile lit her agent’s face. “Oh, good. Here comes Harry Bournmouth, the producer, and it looks like he’s got the guy with him who’s going to look after you for the next week.”
“Five days,” Charlie corrected in a mutter, but she twisted in her seat to see who approached.
A balding, tubby man in his early fifties strode across the room toward them. Harry Bournmouth, she assumed. But her attention didn’t stay on the producer for long. Walking beside him was six-feet, two-inches of muscle. Wearing faded blue jeans that clung to his thick thighs as he walked, and a gray t-shirt which molded to every muscle of his chest, the guy was ridiculously buff. His dark hair was buzzed short and he was clean shaven, with sharp cheekbones and a square jaw. His full mouth was a little too wide and his nose had a slight bump along the bridge where it had been broken once upon a time, she assumed.
Immediately, Charlie’s heart began to race and she quickly turned back around. Surely she wasn’t going to be spending five days in close proximity with that guy? She’d spontaneously combust. Already her cheeks blazed with heat and she hadn’t even been introduced to him yet!
She stared at the glass of white wine sitting on the table in front of her. Beads of moisture had gathered around the outside of the glass, trickling down the side and dripping on the table. Quickly, she picked up the glass and wet her fingertips with the condensation. She applied the cool liquid to her cheeks and forehead, hoping it would help to reduce the redness she was sure glowed from her skin.
Though she became aware of the shape of the two men in front of her, she still didn’t look up. Beside her, Agatha rose from her seat, extending a hand.
“Harry, it’s so lovely to see you again,” she gushed. “This is the star of the show, Charlotte Charleston.”
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