Happily Ever After: A Romance Collection

by Amelia Wilde

  Yes, it’s definitely Scarlett, the little Texan who was just visiting Aspen a couple of weeks ago. I should have run a background check on her. ‘They are nice girls’ wasn’t enough information.

  She gives him a sharp nod. “I’ll take it from here.”

  “Look, little lady.” Tiago turns on his sleek charm. The blonde arches an eyebrow, crossing her arms. “We’d like to speak with your boss about renting the barn for a couple of weeks—a month tops.”

  She snorts, releasing her hands. “I don’t see any little lady around here. But I’ll tell you what, big boy. If you get your ass out of here, I won’t call the authorities on you.”

  Tiago lifts his hands shaking his head. I could interrupt and save his face, but how fun would that be?

  “This ain’t one of those places where you come to store the shit you pass from the Mexican border.” She pokes him with her index finger.

  “Feisty.” Tiago grins grabbing her finger and kissing the tip. I flinch when her knee delivers a blow to his balls. He doubles over, groaning in pain. Fuck that’s gotta hurt.

  “Out!” She turns her attention to me and studies me. “Do I know you?”

  I sober up, taking a step back. My heart’s racing fast. She shouldn’t know me. I changed my nose and my facial hair and I’m wearing a wig. Straightening my back, I run a hand through my head, flipping down my sunglasses.

  “Doubtful.” Tiago’s voice carries some pain. “He’s new to the area. We planned on using your barn for cattle, no merchandise from the Mexican border.”

  “No. I’ve seen him before. It’ll come to me, I never forget a face—but I’m bad with names.” She’s fixated on me. “What’s your name, cowboy?”

  Tiago hands her a business card. “Assuming you run this place, give us a call if you need us.”

  “Now you’re going to offer me ‘protection’.” Her voice comes out aggravated. Suddenly, she slides her hand close to her lower back, pulling out a gun. Fuck. How did we miss that?

  Pointing it at Tiago, she speaks, “listen, fucker. You’re not the first or last asshole coming onto my land, offering some special treatment or threatening me.”

  “Sweetheart, calm down. We are business men and come in peace.” I smooth my tone, hands lifted, palms facing her. “My partner is somehow slow and has trouble expressing himself. He meant if you change your mind and would like to help with our cows, give us a call. His mama taught him well and wanted to offer his help. Sounds like you’ve been harassed.”

  Her breathing evens, her head drops, and she remains silent for a few seconds. Slowly, I begin to lower my arms.

  Tiago’s loud exhale breaks the silence, his eyes set on the blonde. “I like you, Goldie Locks. Next time, I’ll be ready for you.”

  “Anderson Hawkins?” She snaps her fingers, my stomach cramps hard over the name. My facial muscles remain still. “Is that you?”

  Her steps are firm, those eyes remain fixated on me. “Am I right?”

  “Nah, ma’am, but good luck with your farm.” Saluting her, I give her a lazy grin and turn around. “We have to go, asshole, get in the truck.”

  Once we’re off the property, he hits me with the first of many questions. “Where does Goldie know you from?”

  “Nowhere. It’s after five,” I cut him off before he drills me with this stupid nonsense. “We’ve gone through seven properties. We can check the other six properties tomorrow.”

  “Do you think Bradley will let us set a couple of men on this property?” I slam the brakes, his torso jerks forward. His hands clinch the dashboard.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” I bark at him. “Blondie busted your balls and doesn’t want our business.”

  “Take a moment to discern the information we received from her,” he continues. “We are not the first ones coming to rent her space, and the others have offered protections in exchange—maybe demanded it. They’ll come back and we can trace them.”

  “Your boy scout shit is gonna blow our cover.” I remind him of who we’re supposed to be, without adding that I might’ve just fucked our cover. “Someone has the merchandise, we find it this week and head back home.”

  “What’s with the attitude?” he demands.

  I grunt, ignoring him.

  “I trust you with my life and you won’t tell me who the fuck peed on your Cheetos?” He laughs. “If we’re done, why don't we go to a bar and pick up a couple of chicks? A little fun might loosen that hardcore asshole inside you. We can bring that cute blonde with us.

  7

  Anderson

  Mom said once I was born a warrior, a protector. I don’t remember if that was before or after I began to say I’d be a Ranger, like my father. Back then, at the tender age of four, it sounded kind of cool. Dad agreed with me, not that I saw him often. He was never home because he was saving the world. His father had died in the line of duty during the Vietnam War. Dad was only a year old when my grandfather was killed.

  I don’t remember him well. He died when I was six.

  For years, I continued with the idea of following his footsteps. Mom wanted to stop the cycle with me by persuading me to choose a different path. She tried everything in her power. As a librarian, she had access to a vast number of books. Every day there’d be a new one on top of my bed. She tried law, medicine, architecture, even computers, but nothing enticed me as much as becoming a Ranger.

  Tired of listening to her lectures on why I shouldn’t follow in Dad’s steps, I directed my attention to sports and drawing. She sent me to camps and different classes in hopes that I’d find my call. If I wasn’t on the field, the court or the track, I was holding a sketchpad and a pencil. Mom didn’t understand that my call found me long ago, it’s in my blood. The path I traced made sense. My father’s best friend, Arthur Bradley, remained close to my mother. He helped me with my military career and instead of becoming a Ranger like him and Dad, I became part of the Delta Force.

  My missions were my life, the men under my command were my responsibility. We trained together, fought together, and risked our lives together. One visit to my mother and I started doubting the future. I had two broken arms, a bullet wound that’s missed my heart by a couple of millimeters, and two of my men in body bags. Arthur suggested I find a new cause. Mason, his son, owns a security company with different specialties including designing, creating and installing custom security alarms while working for agencies like the FBI, Interpol, and the DEA. Foreign countries hire us to execute operations they can’t, or won’t, do. We fight human trafficking, drug cartels, and terrorist cells among other things. The options are wide. I still defend the innocent, protect my country, and do it at my own pace.

  “I’m so glad you found a new place,” Mom said when I shared that I planned on becoming a tattoo artist.

  It was a partial truth. As I settled into my new life, I also found a job; or maybe the job found me. Mason referred me to Kevin. He had an apartment available right above his tattoo parlor. We got to talking, discussed my artistic side, and I became his apprentice. Kevin, who is also a musician, hired me part time and leased me one of the apartments above the shop. He taught me everything he knows. I learned fast and was able to use my drawing skills. A couple years later, he offered me half of the business with the stipulation that I’d cover for him when he’s out of town and vice-versa.

  “You’re not a tattoo artist,” Mom protested when she noticed a few bruises on me.

  “I am.” I revealed the few visible tattoos I had to her and then slumped my shoulders. She caught me. “But I also found a new place where I can use my training, Mom.”

  Needless to say, that didn’t make her happy. I convinced her that what I did was safer— but it wasn’t. She insists that I have to settle down. Doubtful, but for now I am keeping the missions to a minimum while we find a cure. Losing Mom isn’t an option.

  Bradley: Heard from Wings that you arrived a couple of hours ago. Tiago sent both reports, you didn’t approve eithe
r. Is there something you wanted to add before I file them?

  Me: No. I prepared the information, Tiago uploaded them. I haven’t signed onto my computer to approve either.

  Bradley: Will you be ready for the meeting?

  Me: At what time is it?

  Bradley: Nine. How’s your mother?

  Me: We’re going to San Jose in a couple of days. This doctor you recommended is our last hope.

  Bradley: Everything will work out.

  Will it?

  What if it doesn’t? Mom is the only family I have left. She tells me daily that I have to stop risking my life.

  Cute Neighbor: You’re a drug dealer?

  Oh fuck, blondie!

  I rub my forehead. Months of work blown by the people who live next door to my mother.

  Me: You’re confusing me with someone else.

  Cute Neighbor: No. Scarlett saw you. She warned us that you look a lot different with long hair. Not as hot. And scary, very scary.

  Cute Neighbor: Yep, that’s her primary concern. Not that you could be a dangerous person.

  Me: You think I’m hot?

  I stand in front of my window, facing the coffee shop, thinking about Mom’s cute neighbor. Her love for coffee to stay awake, wine to relax her and tea to chase the insomnia. Aspen intrigues me like no other female has in a long time. She is a beauty, but there’s so much more to her.

  Cute Neighbor: I never said you’re hot.

  Me: Scroll through your texts.

  Cute Neighbor: That’s not what I meant to say.

  A chuckle escapes me. I’d love to see her cheeks flushed and her teeth chewing that bottom lip I want to bite. Her long, dark, wavy hair resting on her shoulders shaking lightly, as those chocolate color eyes melt as I tease her for whatever she blurted. Shit, why do I miss her? These few weeks without talking to her felt incomplete. The need to listen to her voice increases. I miss those late nights talking with her, playing Scrabble, or reading in silence.

  Although I have to shower, check in with Kevin, and catch up with some of my sketches, I call her.

  “Hey.” The sweet ring of her silky voice makes me grin.

  “You sound tired, are you waking up or heading to bed?”

  “Heading to bed.” She sighs. “I just finished my last shift for the next three weeks. I know you said it wouldn’t take more than a week, but what if they want to keep her longer or she’s accepted into the program? I want to be there for her—at least at the beginning.”

  Aspen and Brooklyn work odd hours. I admire their dedication but I worry about the amount of time they spend in the free clinic and the emergency room.

  “How are you?”

  “I’m well.” There’s a hint of annoyance or defeat in her voice. How long has she been home chasing some zzz's?

  “Insomnia?” I guess.

  She growls instead of answering.

  “You could use a cup of tea and a book.” I guess after so many days observing the next-door neighbors I had some of their patterns memorized.

  “Wine,” she retorts. “No. A few margaritas.”

  Running would help—or sex.

  “The world got to be too much for you today?”

  “Something like that,” she whispers. Her tone isn’t sleepy, nor sad. It’s that tone she uses when she’s hiding her true feelings.

  Aspen is tough to read; she conceals herself behind an indifferent, ascetic attitude. Some days, she works hard to give me the impression that she is a heartless gold digger dating a wealthy divorcee. The façade fools many, not me. It was apparent from the beginning that there’s sadness within her, and that those warm brown eyes reveal a sweetness in her soul not hard to recognize. As I learn more about Aspen, my desire to erase those wretched lines around her eyes and remove the gripping sadness in her heart grows.

  “Do you feel like talking about it?”

  “Do you feel like listening to it?”

  I feel like listening to your voice. Which makes zero sense. I’m in my late-thirties and I’ve never had the urge to call a woman, spend my nights thinking about what she’s doing, or fantasize ways of seducing her into my bed. Life is fast, hectic, and everchanging with the different missions I overtake at work. There’s never time for relationships, or a minute to think about anyone. Except I’ve spent days, nights, and all my free time wondering about the girl next door. These past few weeks, I’ve reflected about her and those brown haunted eyes. Thinking of ways to bring her back from wherever forsaken place she hides. Today isn’t any different. Can I make a difference from here? Drive to Tacoma to visit her with the excuse of seeing Mom?

  I look at my watch. No fucking way, I couldn’t make it on time.

  “Always,” I respond, waiting for her to share the latest chapter of her life. The one I missed because I went away. “I’d listen to anything you want to share.”

  “I lost another patient,” she mumbles. “Well, I didn’t. We’d been able to stabilize him, he went to surgery and…I pride myself on being the best damn doctor, to do my best with each case. Avoiding those hurtful words, ‘sorry we tried to do our best but…’.”

  She exhales, time passes. I look over the words I tattooed on my arm once I quit the force. I had served for years, prided myself on succeeding during each mission, hating the loss of innocent lives, and the lives of the men who fought along with me. Is she going through the same?

  “Lately I …”

  “The faces of those you couldn’t save appear recurrently in your dreams,” I murmur, understanding part of the pain.

  “Something like that.” She clears her throat. “A part of me wants to change specialties, the other needs to let go of the ER.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “It’s complicated.” Her tender voice starts to change. She huffs. Even without seeing her I know the barriers are up and ready to take over. “Forget about it.”

  “Aspen, don’t do that. Stop keeping those who care about you at bay.” My voice comes out harsher than I meant. “We’re trying to have a conversation and you are cutting it short.”

  “I’m going to bed,” she snaps. “This isn’t something I talk lightly about with strangers.”

  “Whoa, where is this coming from?” She went as cold as the artic. “Why are you trying to start a fight with me?”

  8

  Aspen

  A fight?

  I blink twice. Are we fighting? It doesn’t feel like a fight. Well, how do I know? I usually don’t get this far. Not since Michael and that was more than ten years ago.

  “Aspen, talk to me,” he insists.

  How do I explain to him that after ten years I still miss my fiancé? Since the beginning of our relationship, I fought myself to stay positive, convinced myself that Michael would come home after every mission. I never thought about the possibility of not being with him. I prayed to have him by my side. It wasn’t enough. Now I live life without him.

  Every time I lose a patient, I feel like I’m losing Michael all over again. After he died, I made it my mission that no one should ever go home with a broken heart due to negligence. My efforts aren’t enough. It pains me to say those words, “I’m sorry for your loss.” Losing Dad only pushed me farther into isolation. Brynn and Austin, my brother, know what’s going on inside my head. Some days, I allow Scarlett to learn a few things. Other than them, the rest of the people around me are casual friends. Explaining my life gets lots of pitying looks and fake understanding.

  “Walk away from the darkness,” Anderson whispers.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Try lowering the barriers and let others into your life.” Anderson sighs, desperation and anger attached to every word. They feel like a hammer trying to break me free from the dome I live under. “Try to talk to me.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” I fight him because there’s no need to break into a place where I live safe.

  “Of course it matters. You exhaust yourself. You avoi
d sleeping to replace an emptiness. You need to open yourself and let others inside.”

  I growl again, unable to communicate the force of the whirlwind rotating inside me. It’s as if the container where I’d placed all my emotions fractured and they’re leaking through the small fissure, one by one. If I could inject Novocain to stop all these feeling spinning around, I would. “Well, I can’t at this moment. The dark place is safer.”

  I don’t tell him to save his words. Many therapists have tried to explain that opening up is the only way to heal. What if I let someone new in and I lose him? No one should go through the pain of losing a loved one. No one.

  “Fuck,” he mumbles. “We’re both tired, no one’s going to win this conversation. I have a meeting in a couple of hours. Be ready tonight, wear something comfortable.”

  He leaves me staring at the phone, not understanding what happened. Why is he coming over tonight and why the hell do I feel like a bitch?

  Anderson: Get some rest, sorry if I came off too harsh.

  Me: Sorry if I sounded like a bitch. I worked too many hours, saw too much and…see you later.

  Anderson: Sweet dreams.

  Anderson

  After showering, fixing my apartment and responding to some emails I have from the past week, I climb down the stairs, push the industrial metal door that opens to the street and lock it behind me. Though the tattoo parlor is in the same building as my apartment, the door is on the other side of the structure. I leave my jacket behind. July is one of the few months when there’s not much rain in Seattle. The sky is open, there’re only a few clouds overhead and the sun is shining. Teens go down the street riding their skateboards. Moms are pushing strollers or holding the hand of their little children. Everything is busy, yet calm; unlike fall or spring, when the streets around this area are filled with college students rushing to get to their destinations. Across the street from our shop a new restaurant is going to open. The city changes every few weeks, new businesses come in, the old ones close out. Fancy big names with fancier lettering are taking over the city. But our shop never changes.